


In Dreams

by HeidiBug731



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Personal Canon, Post Trespasser, Trespasser
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-03-09 05:21:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13474524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeidiBug731/pseuds/HeidiBug731
Summary: After the loss of the Inquisition, half her left arm, and everything she thought she knew about the elven gods, Inan Lavellan is left with pieces of her life she doesn't know how to pick up. As her friends try to help her build some sense of normalcy, Solas comes to her in dreams where they fight to reconcile what’s left of their love.





	1. Chapter 1

She has no idea how long she stares at the eluvian where Solas left. Time seems to freeze in place. Nothing exists for her except what transpired between them.

_I will never forget you._

How is she supposed to pick herself up? How can she possibly find her footing? Two years of trying to push him from her mind and move forward, and in a single meeting he's thrust her back to square one. She struggles to breathe under the weight of it all.

_Ir abelas, vhenan._

He still loves her. And the soul-crushing realization is she still loves him.

_You're_ _Fen’Harel._

Tears run down her face.

_There is only death on this journey._

She barely recognizes her friends’ footsteps as they clamber up the hill toward her.

“What happened?” Dorian’s voice floats to her. “Did you find Solas? Did he help?”

_Drawing you here gave me the chance to save you, at least for now._

Someone jostles her arm. Pain shoots from her fingertips to her teeth. She draws back with a hiss, clutching her left arm to her chest. She sees it for the first time since Solas removed the anchor, shriveled below the elbow in sickly gray flesh.

“Oh, shit,” says Varric. “That doesn’t look good.”

She tries to move her fingers and whimpers as pain shoots up her arm again.

“Can you walk?” Cassandra asks.

She doesn’t answer, staring at the monstrosity that is her forearm and hand.

Cassandra reaches down to pull her up.

_My love..._

She doesn’t remember the journey home, doesn’t realize she’s actually left the hill until she finds herself staring at the decorated walls of the Winter Palace. There are shapes and voices before her, speaking in hurried whispers, but she makes no effort to focus on them or understand their words. She stares at their shoes without taking them in.

_What is the old Dalish curse?_

Solas… the Inquisition… everything she thought she knew…

_May the Dread Wolf take you?_

Her thoughts break as Cassandra kneels in front of her, and only then does she realize she’s sitting in a chair, cradling her shriveled arm against her chest.

“The Anchor did too much damage,” she says. “Removing it saved your life, but…” She hesitates. “Your arm will have to be amputated.”

Her words sound muted, too far away to hold much meaning.

_Your legends are half right._

Cassandra squeezes her good arm. “Inan, are you here?"

_The Dread Wolf inspired hope in my friends and fear in my enemies._

She somehow finds the countenance to nod.

Cassandra meets her eyes, gazing hard. “It will be all right.”

She doesn’t feel all right. She feels like she’s drowning.

_I am not Corypheus. I take no joy in this._

A mage takes Cassandra's place. “I’ll going to put you to sleep, and when you wake up, it will all be over.”

_I will save the elven people, even if it means this world must die._

The mage presses the palm of his hand against her forehead.

_Sometimes terrible choices are all that remain._

Cool, soothing magic flows from his touch, and she falls into a blissful dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

When she awakes in her room in the Winter Palace, she has no idea what she’s doing there.

Slowly, the memories come to her.

_There's still the matter of the anchor. It's getting worse._

She hesitates as she turns to look at her arm. It’s wrapped in bandages down to her elbow… where it stops.

She bursts into tears, crying into her good arm.

_Pick yourself up_ , she tells herself. An old mantra from when Solas was still with the Inquisition and the mere sight of him sent her weeping. _Move forward._

She wipes her eyes on her sleeve and rises from the bed, needing something to do with herself. Her eyes fall on her red uniform.

_You should be more concerned about the Inquisition_ _._ _Your Inquisition._

She steps to the bedroom door, and a small dark-skinned elven woman standing watch jumps at the sight of her.

“Inquisitor, I–”

“The Exalted Counsel, is it still being held?”

The woman stammers. “I-I, well, uh, yes, Your Worship. Lady Josephine is in the talks as we speak.”

“Bring me the rit of the Divine.”

“I was instructed to–”

She closes the door before the woman can finish. She steps to her uniform and hesitates before attempting to dress herself. She lifts the jacket, tossing it as she maneuvers her good arm into the arm hole. The weight of the fabric pulls her arm through as she raises it.

The other arm is tricky. She leans to the side, reaching her good arm behind her back to grasp the jacket. She’s forced to look at her stump as she fits it into the sleeve. It’s only now that she notices the strange aura around the inscribed bandages and realizes she feels no pain.

Fastening the buttons is difficult with one hand, but she manages. The trousers are easier.

Dressed, she opens her bedroom door to find the servant has returned with the Divine’s rit.

“My Lady,” she says, holding the book out to her. “I really must insist–”

Inan ignores her, takes the book, and marches down the hallway.

She’s tired. Three years and she hasn’t seen her family. Three years of carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. Three years that has hardened her and brought her more joy and more pain than she ever could have imagined.

She wants to _rest_. But she will never have that, not so long as the Inquisition remains.

_You too know the burden of a title that all but replaces your name._

Part of her wonders if she can ever really stop being the Inquisitor. Would Orlais and Fereldan leave her be with the Inquisition gone? Would the world leave her be? Would the Herald of Andraste be _allowed_ to return to the untamed forest and the barbaric life of her clan? Would she ever be free to live her life to her choosing?

She’s half tempted to throw the book at the counsel and let them fight amongst themselves until they figure it out. What difference does it make for her anyway?

But she hears their voices as she nears the door.

“We stand on the brink of war with the Qunari!”

“Yes, because this Solas provoked them!”

Anger flares within her. She will not let the Inquisition stand as an army against Solas. Not with it’s corruption. Neither Ferelden nor Orlais nor Solas’ own spies will have the Inquisition. Not with people so willing to assign blame, who never knew him, who would be more interested in cutting him down than attempting to stay his hand. She'll destroy the organization before she gives any of these ignorant fools the tools to harm him.

The guards on either side of the doors open them for her, and she marches into the room. Josephine stares at her with wide eyes, horrified she’s out of bed.

“Inquisitor…”

She averts her gaze from Josphine and raises the Divine’s rit for all to see. She declares the Inquisition disbanded, throws the book at the counsel’s feet, and marches out.

Something lifts from her as passes through the hall’s doors. There is no longer a powerful organization for her stand as figurehead. Any obligation to put on a face for ceremony or pretense vanishes, and she nearly crumples from the release of it. She leans against the wall for support, hot tears rolling down her face.

_Ar lasa mala revas._

Strong hands grasp her shoulders. “Inquisitor?”

Cullen’s voice.

She gives a bitter chuckle. “That’s not my title anymore.”

“I think you’ll find it’s not that easy.” He turns her to him, taking in her tear-streaked face. “Come on.” He guides her down the hall as her tears build.

She should find stability with Cullen’s arm around her, but all she feels is the safety to act as she needs to. Sobs escape her, and Cullen ushers her into a random storeroom to save them from witnesses. The freedom of the seclusion makes her cry even harder.

Cullen holds her to him. “What is it? Speak to me.”

Amongst her sobs, she’s able to gasp Solas’ name.

_If you care, give me the truth._

“I know,” Cullen says as he rubs her back. “An agent of Fen’Harel. I’m so sorry.”

She shakes her head against his chest, but try as she might she can’t get the words out to explain.

_I am no one's agent but my own._

“Is she alright?” Josephine's voice.

“Is it your arm?” Cassandra's. “Does it pain you?”

She doesn't lift her face to see who else may have entered the room, but she shakes her head again.

“She's trying to say something about Solas,” Cullen explains for her. “I don’t understand.”

_Ultimately none but I could have born the mark and lived._

The anchor was always his. Her obtaining it, carrying it, being decreed Herald – all of it was due to his actions. The pain it caused her, being ripped from her home, the lost of her arm…

_It was not supposed to happen this way._

She continues to sob into Cullen’s chest, knocking her fist against his shoulder.

“Here.” Rainier inserts himself between the two of them. “Give it a real punch. Maker knows I've taken plenty.”

All the lies, all the secrets, all the times he walked away and left her feeling helpless and worthless…

_I loved you._ _Did you really think I wouldn't have understood?_

She hits Thom in the shoulder – she isn't sure how hard. But she imagines Solas standing in front of her in that big stupid armor and gives it all she's got, muttering elven curses against the feared Dalish god.

_You lied to me!_

_What would you have had me say?_

_I would have had you trust me!_

Her anger fades with her strength, and she's left sobbing into Thom's shirt.

_I cannot bear to think of you alone._

“Inan.” Cullen is at her side again. “Tell us what happened.”

She can barely get the words out. Her companions repeat “Fen’Harel” back to her, but they don’t get it. They don’t understand.

_There is no glory here. Only a price that I alone will pay._

“Solas _is_ Fen’Harel,” she tries amongst her sobs. “ _Is_ Fen’Harel.” She repeats it over and over until their confused questioning dies to silence.

_I'm sorry._

Darkness closes in on her vision. Her knees give out, and Thom’s arms tighten around her to keep her from falling. Exhaustion takes her, and she doesn't know if she thinks the words or actually says them:

_Var lath vir suledin._

 

* * *

 

When she awakes, she's not in Val Royeaux, but Skyhold. And there's a certain someone siting at the edge of the bed dressed in clothes she knew him to wear during his time with the Inquisition.

“Solas?”

He gives her a soft, sad smile. “Vhenan.”

A lump forms in her throat. “Are you really here?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

It's not an answer, but she doesn't care. She crawls toward him, forgetting and relying on an arm that no longer exists. She falls on her stump with a yelp, tearing open the wound, blood soaking the bandages.

Solas clambers to her, pulling her into his arms. “This is the Fade. It bleeds because you think it should.”

She closes her eyes, fighting to will away the pain. When she opens them again the blood is gone.

Solas caresses her cheek, looking as pained as she feels. “Are you alright?”

Tears roll down her face, and she shakes her head.

He holds her to him, and she clings to his tunic, sobbing into his shoulder. “Don't leave me.”

“I will stay as you sleep.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, vhenan.” He presses a kiss into her hair. “Now rest.”

 

* * *

 

When she wakes for real this time, she's back in Val Royeaux. Solas is gone, and Cole is sitting in his place.

“You were hurting,” he tells her. “It was very loud.”

He reaches out a hand to her, and as she takes it, she realizes he knew. Cole always knew exactly who Solas was.

Tears come to her eyes.

“Now _I’m_ hurting you!” he says.

She turns her face away, crying into her pillow. But she does not let go of Cole’s hand. She grips it tighter.

He climbs onto the bed, as he knows she wants him to. She turns around and clings to him, crying into his shirt.

“I'm sorry,” he says as he holds her. “It wasn't mine to tell.”

“I don't blame you, Cole,” she whispers.

“You're angry,” he says. “But mostly sad. The sharp edges blurred by tears. He hurts too. Sad that you hurt. Angry that he makes you hurt. Then sad all over again.”

She has no response.

“He hurts because you hurt,” Cole continues. “And you hurt for him. Your hurt's all twisted, wrapped together. I can't touch one without feeling the other.”

How many times had she wondered if Solas knew, if he understood the pain he put her through? How she ached at the thought he didn’t care. Now she knows otherwise, but she isn’t sure she hurts any less.

She pulls Cole closer, wanting the comfort of his arms.

He hears the request she does not ask and tells her, “I will stay.”


	2. Chapter 2

Cassandra is sitting next to the bed when she wakes again. Her friend barely manages a smile. “How are you feeling?”

Inan doesn’t know how to answer. She brushes her fingers along what's left of her arm. “Okay, I guess.”

“Are you in any pain?”

She shakes her head.

The corners of Cassandra’s eyes crinkle in sympathy. “I know this is hard, but I need you to explain what happened with Solas.”

Inan can’t meet her gaze. She turns her face away and takes a deep breath.

She starts with stepping through the eluvian and finding the army of stone qunari. She explains the rest by imagining herself floating above the scene, looking down at what occurred as though she had observed it rather than been a part of it. It’s the only reason she gets through it without bursting into tears, and even then she has to wipe her misty eyes.

She leaves the out part where they kissed, where she asked Solas to let her help him, and anywhere else they discussed their relationship.

Cassandra places a hand on her shoulder once she’s finished. Inan still can’t look at her.

“Ferelden and Orlais should know,” she says.

Inan nods in agreement.

Cassandra gives a small squeeze and leaves the room. She isn’t sure she hears or just imagines her friend cursing the entire walk down the hall.

 

* * *

 

Breakfast is brought to Inan by the same elven woman who stood outside her door the day before. She carries in a tray containing two bowls, one of porridge and another with fruit.

Inan studies her. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before. Before yesterday, I mean.”

The servant bows, lifting the skirt of her dress. “I was sent by Marquise Briala. It was agreed by your advisers that I should serve given, ah… recent events.”

“I see.” With Solas’ spies, the Qunari spies, and who knew what else inside the Inquisition, it made sense her advisers would search elsewhere for someone to trust. “Do you have a name?”

The servant bows again. “Anise, Your Worship.”

“Please don’t call me that.” The words come out more bitter than she had intended.

Anise stammers. “M-my Lady.”

Inan eats her breakfast under Anise’s watchful gaze, having been instructed to make sure she ate everything. After finishing, Inan stands from the bed.

Anise throws out her hands as though to lower her back to the covers. “My Lady! You need rest!”

“I’ve done enough resting.” She ignores Anise’s fretting and steps to her wardrobe. She waves the servant girl off as she attempts to help her dress. “I can do it myself!” she snaps.

Anise steps back, bows her head, and clasps her hands in front of her.

Inan sighs and runs a hand over her face. “I must sound like I’m irritated with you. I’m not. I’m just…”

Just what? Just irritated the man she’d thought was gone from her life had walked back in? Irritated her heart aches for him all over again? Irritated she’s missing half an arm? That she’s being watched and guarded like a child? That her life’s been turned upside down _again?_   That everything she thought she knew about her elven heritage turned out to be wrong yet again? That the man she’s in love with is the Dread _fucking_ Wolf? Irritated he’s on some suicide mission, and she has no idea where he is or how to talk him out of it? Irritated she feels helpless and powerless and angry and on the verge of tears all at once?

There’s so much more than she could ever begin to explain. So instead she sighs and finishes dressing herself.

Anise follows her as she leaves the room, and Inan stops in the middle of the hallway.

“I was instructed to follow,” the servants explains, dropping her gaze to the floor. “In case you have need of anything.”

It takes all of Inan’s strength not to groan in frustration. “I don’t appreciate being tailed.”

The girl nods slowly. “I will endeavor to make myself less offensive.”

“That’s not–” Inan gapes, unable to find the proper words yet again. She scoffs at herself and continues down the hall, Anise following behind.

She walks out onto the palace grounds and finds a quiet balcony to sit where the sun warms her and the flowers smell sweet. She’s surprised to find Anise has vanished out of sight, but she’s grateful at least for the illusion of solitude. She gazes out over the rolling hills of the countryside, and thinks that this should be a simple moment, one of peace and reflection. The Inquisition has ended, and she should be free. Instead it feels like everything has gone wrong. She’s back at the Conclave falling out of the rift with a strange mark on her hand, the threat of execution, and no clue what will come next.

The Inquisition is gone. The Mark is gone. Her hand is gone. And Solas…

Whatever’s coming, she isn’t ready.

Footsteps sound behind her, and she turns expecting to see Anise, but it’s Thom.

“Would you mind some company?” he asks.

She gives a nod of her head, even though she really isn’t sure.

He sits next to her on the bench. “How are you holding up?”

She doesn’t have anymore of an answer for him than she did for Cassandra. She stares at her knees.

“Right,” he says. “Probably not the best question. How’s the arm?”

She raises her eyebrows. Is this how every conversation with her companions is destined to start?

“I’ll just… put my foot in my mouth then.” He gazes out over the scenery. For a while, they sit in silence. “So, with the Inquisition disbanded… what do you plan to do?”

She sighs. “I don’t know.”

“Will you go back to your clan?”

She gives a bitter laugh. Go back? With the vallaslin missing from her face? With love in her heart for the Dalish god of trickery and misfortune? With all the knowledge she’s learned about the ancient elves and Mythal? With everything she knows is wrong with what the Dalish teach?

She’s known for a long time she could never go back. Maybe one or two things her people would accept but not all of it. They’d cast her out, or begrudgingly accept her as having been poisoned from her time with the humans, or she’d keep quiet and slowly lose her mind from the falseness of it all. It’s why she had Solas remove her vallaslin. She wanted to move her life forward and accept that things couldn’t be as they were.

But the life she’d thought she accepted was stripped from her again, and she doesn’t know how much more ground she can stand being pulled out from under her.

“I can’t seem to do anything but offend you today,” Thom says.

“What about you?” she asks. “Have any more men of yours to track down?”

“No,” he says. “But I’d like to travel. I’ve seen the hopeless and condemned. And what you did for me, I think I do for them.”

It should be an uplifting statement, but her heart breaks. She knew having everyone back together was only temporary. But she’s not prepared to watch them all go again. And she can’t bring herself to ask them not to.

She turns away from him, trying to pull her emotions together.

He reaches for her. But she shrugs him off. “I’m fine.” Her voice shakes.

“You’re not fine.” He reaches again.

She slaps his hand away. “I’d like to be alone, please.”

He waits. When she doesn’t change her mind, he stands. “I’m sorry.”

She fights against the sobs that threaten her once he’s gone.

She hates this, hates having her emotions tear up her insides, hates feeling like crying at every little thing, hates hating herself. She went through this two years ago when Solas left, and she is _not_ doing it again.

She tears herself away from the bench with an enraged cry and flees from the balcony. She heads for the tavern where she knows she’ll find people, where she can force her emotions aside, where societal pressures will be enough to keep her from breaking down.

She enters the building and spots The Iron Bull straight away.

She sinks gratefully into a seat across from him at the bar.

“Whoa, boss,” he says. “Are you okay?”

She imagines her red and puffy face and brings her sleeve to eyes. When she’s collected enough to lower her arm, she finds a mug of something hot and steaming in front of her. She takes a large gulp, and it soothes all the way down.

Iron Bull’s eyes search her up and down.

“I’m all right now,” she tells him. “Thank you.”

“Well, just let me know if you want to talk about it.”

She doesn’t, and returns to her drink. She’s not sure what’s in it. It’s smooth and creamy, with just a hint of ale. It’s good.

“Could have used this in the Fallow Mire,” she says.

Bull chuckles. “Tell me about it.”

Inan continues to sip at her drink and casts her gaze around the room.

“Looking for someone, boss?”

“Anise, the servant girl. She’s supposed to be watching me, but I haven’t seen her.”

“Oh, she’s out there.” His gaze travels to a particular point Inan can’t identity. “But you’re not supposed to see her. She’s a spy.”

Inan nearly spits out her drink. “She’s _what?_ ”

Bull stares at her. “All of Briala’s people have spy training.”

“I thought the point was to find someone to watch me who wasn’t spying for someone else.”

Bull shrugs. “Briala’s an ally. She’s not going to turn on the woman who got her the throne. Besides, none of her people are likely to get by me.”

“You let Solas get by you.”

The words come out unbidden, but she’s been thinking about it ever since she found Solas on that hill. Two of the best spies in all of Thedas worked for the Inquisition, and neither of them had known.

Bull nearly drops his mug.

“I’m sorry,” Inan says. “I didn’t mean-”

“No, you’re right.” Bull shakes his head. “He did get by me. He got by all of us.”

“Why did he?”

Bull takes a breath and sips his ale. “The good spies, the really good ones, they don’t lie. I mean, they craft a story and a persona that’s as close as possible to themselves so they don’t have to remember to act differently than they normally would. Solas wasn’t pretending to be a smartass know-it-all. He wasn’t pretending to be into all that demon crap. He wasn’t pretending to want to stop Corypheus. He just knew more than he let on, and that’s easier to hide.”

“You said self-taught mages should have something in their style that _clunks_ , and he didn’t.”

“Yeah, and he said without magical training I probably wouldn’t know what to look for.” Bull mutters into his drink, “Smug little asshole.”

“And Vivienne said it was odd he knew so much and had so little personal history.”

Bull sighs. “There were things, tiny things, that maybe we should have caught on to. But everyone’s got secrets, everyone has things they hide. That doesn’t mean everyone’s an enemy. You’ve got to know when to suspect and when to trust. And sometimes you get it wrong, but it’s better than the alternative.”

“What’s the alternative?”

Bull shakes his head and takes a long swig of his drink.

She doesn’t prod further. Instead, she rubs her thumb along the side of her mug. “What do you think… about the people he supposedly cared about?” She doesn’t doubt, but she wonders if he does.

Bull thinks for a moment and one corner of his lips curls. “Solas never struck me as the type to suck up to people he didn’t like.” He looks at her, one eyebrow raised, testing the waters.

She manages a smile, and he smiles back. It’s comforting to know she’s not the only one who believes their time with Solas was genuine. She goes back to her mug and rubs her thumb along it again. It’s amazing to think life two and half years ago had been so much simpler. She’d give anything to relive it now.

“I don’t think his feelings for you were-”

“ _Don’t._ ” There’s too much. She doesn’t want to start crying again.

“Right,” says Bull. “Sorry, boss.”

She finishes her drink in silence, and Bull mixes her another. She’s nearly done with that one when she starts feeling light-headed. How much alcohol is in one of those things anyway? And her body? How much blood did she lose when they took her arm? How much energy is she losing to the healing process?

“Bull?”

He takes hold of her as she tilts. “Okay, boss. Let’s get you back to bed.”

She has difficultly getting off her stool, but Bull guides her, his strong arms refusing to let her fall. He leads her from the tavern out into the courtyard where voices carry to them.

“If they refuse to acknowledge the danger,” says Cassandra. “There’s nothing we can do to force the issue.”

“If the Inquisition were still in place-” says Josephine.

“It’s not,” says Cullen. “Debating whether it should be doesn’t help.”

“Inan couldn’t have been thinking clearly when she-”

“We’ve discussed this-”

The three of them round the corner, coming to a stop as they spot Inan and Bull.

Inan shoves off Bull’s arms and straightens her back. “I take the ambassadors didn’t listen?”

Josephine looks at the ground. Cullen looks at Cassandra.

“They find it difficult to believe in…”

“A Dalish legend?” Inan finishes bitterly. “Sure. But they had no problem when a darkspawn out of a Chantry myth showed up. Or maybe it was the giant whole in the sky that brought everyone together. Of course, if that’s allowed to happen again we’re all probably dead!”

They stare at her, but say nothing.

“I’m not the Herald of Andraste to any of them anymore, am I?” she continues. “Which would be a relief if it also didn’t mean I’m now just some stupid knife ear running her stupid mouth about some ridiculous elven god – who also happens to be someone who meant an awful lot to me!” She takes a shuddering breath. “I gave up my _life_ for these people! I saved their stupid arses! The least they could do is act like that actually _meant_ something!”

The blood drains from her head and she tilts.

The last thing she remembers is Bull’s arms on hers and his assurance, “I gotcha!”


	3. Chapter 3

She walks through a dense forest, pushing brush out of her face and freezing in place when she spots a black-furred wolf with Solas’ grey-blue eyes amongst the trees. Its stance goes ridged, as though finding her is every bit as much of a shock.

They stare at one another.

The wolf darts into the woods. She follows, underbrush grabbing at her ankles. She trips and falls to the ground, but it’s not solid. She sinks, the dirt around her shifting into a pit of darkness. She grabs at the ground with both hands but finds nothing to hold on to.

The wolf returns, reaching for her with its jaws. Piercing pain shoots through her left forearm as the wolf’s teeth sink into it. She screams, but there’s no sound. Her arm rips at the elbow and she falls.

 

* * *

 

“I thought these were supposed to alleviate pain,” she says to the mage who checks her bandages the next morning.

“They alleviate pain in the residual limb,” he explains as he unwraps her bindings. “You’re describing pain in what is no longer there.”

She groans as the bandages leave her skin, a strong ache spreading up her very real arm. “What do I do about it?”

“It’s normal at this stage.” His fingers prod her tender skin. “It will ease on its own over time. You could also try a hot press.”

 _None of this is normal._ she thinks. Half her arm is gone – she can’t even bring herself to look at what’s left. Time will not heal what she’s lost, nor a hot press.

Tears well in her eyes.

“You still have some swelling. It should go down in another day or two.”

He reapplies the bandages, but while the pain subsides, her tears don’t. She presses her face into her hand.

The mage either doesn’t notice or is kind enough not to say anything. “Do not hesitate to send for me should you need anything.”

She has trouble getting her tears under control, and she’s not fully recovered when Anise walks in, her arms laden with books from the library.

“My Lady! Are you all right?”

Inan turns her face away. “I’m fine.” She rubs her eyes on her sleeve. “What did you bring?”

The texts make a soft thud as Anise lays them on the bedside table. “I found Shartan, Garahel, some studies in-”

“Shartan,” she decides as she turns around, more composed now.

Shartan she already knows. Shartan won’t bring her to tears. But she reaches for the book with an arm that is no longer there, and tears come to her again. She tries to ignore it, dismissing her mistake as she reaches with her right hand. But even after she’s taken the book and settled into bed, it’s apparent that even something so simple will be forever changed for her.

She’s used to reading with both hands. It’s easy enough to lay the book on her lap and hold the pages that want to flip over open with her palm pressed against them. But she has to slide her hand down to keep reading, then turn the pages with her thumb at the base of the spine.

She’ll never hold a book with two hands again, or a mug, or someone’s else hand, or anything…

She can’t hold back the sobs that shake her, and she raises the open book to her face to hide them.

“My Lady!” exclaims Anise. “Can I-?”

“Just ignore me or _go away!_ ”

Silence, and then Anise’s footsteps softly pad from the room. Inan curses herself and considers calling her back.

Instead, she curls up with Shartan and cries into the pages.

 

* * *

 

She’s feeling better when Cassandra visits.

“Shartan?” her friend gives a laugh. “You know if you wanted them to treat you less like an elf you could have chosen something more…” She scans the stack of books. “ _A Treaty on the Pagan and Heretical Customs of the Elven_. Yes, like that.”

Inan actually chuckles. “How’s our Fereldan and Orlesian ambassadors?”

Cassandra sighs. “No more likely to believe in Fen’Harel than they were yesterday. The Orlesians have at least gathered up the eluvians. None of them work anymore, and I doubt they’ll turn back on. I imagine they’ll end up in guarded storage somewhere.”

“Any chance they’d give us one to study?”

Cassandra shakes her head. “We no longer have an organization for Ferelden or Orlais to be forced to cooperate with.”

Inan looks down at her book. “You think I shouldn’t have disbanded.”

“What I think-” Cassandra takes a breath. “It was a difficult choice, and you made it. I respect that.”

That’s not the answer she was looking for. “Josephine thinks I shouldn’t have disbanded.”

“Josephine stands by the Inquisitor,” Cassandra assures her. “You should hear her defend you.”

“Defend me?”

Cassandra rocks on her feet and averts her eyes. “The ambassadors… believe you have suffered a trauma and are not completely in control of your mental faculties.”

Inan furrows her brow. “What would give them that idea?”

“Your… incident yesterday had witnesses.”

Inan lets out a loud groan.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it?”

Cassandra leans onto the bed so they’re eye level. “Of course it isn’t. You've faced something no one could have been prepared for. You’re handing it as best you can. No one blames you for that.”

Inan shakes her head. “Orlais and Ferelden blame me for that.”

Cassandra lays a hand on her good arm. “No one who matters blames you for that.”

Inan has to swallow her emotions as she takes in Cassandra’s strong gaze. She clears her throat and averts her eyes. “Is Anise still outside?”

“She is. Why?”

“I think I owe her an apology.”

 

* * *

 

“Resting seriously this time?” Thom asks as he enters the room with his hands clasped behind him.

She smiles. “I don't need a repeat of yesterday.”

“Yes, well, I wanted to make up for that.” From behind his back, he reveals a knife and a piece of wood in one hand and some strange contraption involving a rope pulled through holes in a wooden plank in the other.

Her eyes linger on the knife and wooden stick. “You want to teach me how to whittle?”

“That’s the idea.” He takes a seat on the edge of the bed and pats the space next to him.

She doesn’t move. “You do realize I have one hand?”

“Nonsense,” he chuckles. “How many sprained wrists or elbows do you think I’ve gotten from a hard hit to my shield? Turns out you only need one hand.”

Intrigued, she leaves her space where she sits propped up on pillows against the headboard and slides over to him. She dangles her legs over the bed.

“Now, this is a little tall for you.” He positions the plank against her leg. “But I can get an appropriately sized one made if you like.”

He shows her how to wrap the rope around her knee to keep the plank in place. At the bottom, lies more rope that she loops her opposite foot through. He places the stick at the top of the plank, held tight by the rope that she pulls taunt with her foot.

“See?” he says. “Easy.”

He takes her hand and shows her the proper angle to hold the knife, sliding her fingers forward in slow strokes. Then he lets her try for herself. It takes her some practice to get it right, where the blade shaves the wood without getting stuck.

“Whittling can be very therapeutic,” he tells her. “You can get lost in the movements, allow your thoughts to travel elsewhere. You can work through frustration or stave off boredom.”

She enjoys the movement, the back and forth, like an ocean tide. She can see why it would be good for meditation or reflection. And as shavings fall to the floor and the stick sharpens to a point, she feels like she’s accomplished something. Whittling is something can _do_ rather than something she has to relearn.

She says nothing until she’s flipped the stick over and carved both ends to sharp point, Thom giving her pointers along the way. She stares at her work, simple and yet more important than she can find words to explain.

“Thank you,” she says softly.

She isn’t sure he can understand what he’s done for her. But he hugs her and holds her tight, and she thinks maybe he does.

“I wanted you to have something from me before I went.”

She closes her eyes, still holding him. “When do you leave?”

 “Soon.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh, good,” says Dorian, peeking his head through the doorway. “You’re alone. Didn’t want anyone preventing your toast.” He comes through the door, carrying a bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other.

She gasps. “Tevinter rose wine?”

“The finest, as promised.”

He closes the door behind him, and Inan scoots over to make room on the bed.

“I’d planned to celebrate,” he tells her as he fills the glasses. “Whether you disbanded the inquisition or told those nobles to ship off. This isn’t quite the setting I’d imagined.”

“It will do.” She smiles and takes the glass he hands her.

He fills his own drink and raises the glass. “To no more ‘Herald of Andraste.’”

“Thank the Maker for that.”

They clink glasses, and she sips.

“What do you think?”

She gives a satisfied sigh. “Don’t tell my Keeper, but this is better than what we make.”

“That’s because it’s made with blood magic.”

She nearly spits out her sip of wine.

“You know,” Dorian looks down at his cup and swirls the liquid inside it. “Knowing the Magister who owns the vineyard, it might actually be.”

She laughs. “Dorian, stop!” If she had a free hand, she would hit him with it. “You’re ruining it.”

But they both laugh and sip their wine. When she’s finished her glass, she lays her head on his shoulder and he leans his head on hers.

“You’re going to miss me terribly, aren’t you?”

She gives a chuckle. “I don’t want to inflate that ego of yours.”

“Oh, I’m afraid you’re far too late.”

She chuckles again, and they sit in silence for a while until Dorian lifts his head.

“I’m afraid I… I do have to leave.”

“ _Now?_ ” she asks in a high pitched whine.

“Don’t give me those sad eyes,” he says. “You know I can’t resist.”

She smiles at the game and then turns her face away from him, very real tears coming to her.

He lays a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t do that. This isn’t goodbye. You have the crystal. We can talk whenever you like.” His voice is missing its usual luster.

“Right.” She takes a shaking breath, trying to rein her emotions in. “Anytime.” She turns back to him, biting her lower lip to keep it from trembling.

“I thought we’d finish the bottle.” His smile wanes. “So I brought two. I’ll pass the remainder off to Josephine, and when you’re better you can drink whenever you…”

Hard as she tries, her emotions bubble up, and she can’t stop the tears from flowing. Dorian holds her and doesn’t let go until she does. When she pulls away, his eyes are just as watery as hers.

“You’ll be all right,” he tells her. “Just take care of yourself.”

She nods. “You too.”

He swallows and turns away.

She sobs freely once he’s gone.

 

* * *

 

“Oh, not you too,” she groans when Varric comes in.

He freezes and casts his eyes around the room. “Did I miss something?”

She sighs. “You’re leaving, like everyone else?”

He raises his eyebrows and leans back toward the door like he’s reconsidering this conversation. “I do have a city to run, First.”

She averts her gaze, her emotions welling up again, but she isn’t certain she has any tears left to cry. “I understand.”

Varric hesitates, then climbs onto the bed to sit beside her. “I can talk to Bran, see if we can stay another day or two.”

She shakes her head. “I get it, Varric. You have responsibilities.”

He takes her hand. “And you’ve been through a trauma.” He scoffs. “Kirkwall’s not going to burn itself to the ground while I’m not there… I hope.”

She actually smiles. She squeezes his hand.

“I worry about you,” he says.

“I’ll be all right, Varric.”

He lets go of her. “Stop saying what you think we all want to hear and be honest with yourself for once.”

She turns away, and the honest truth that she’s not okay gets tears flowing again.

“Come here.”

She turns around and lowers her head to his shoulder.

He rubs her back. "I'm sorry."

“Varric, I…” She doesn’t know how to tell him or even explain to herself how lost she feels.

“You know you have place in Kirkwall whenever you need it.”

She pulls away from him, wiping at her eyes.

“What are you going to do?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

“Sure you do,” he encourages.

“I guess... I’m going back to Skyhold.”

“And then what?”

She scoffs. “Varric, what do you want me to say?”

“I want to know that you’re going to take care of yourself,” he tells her. “I want to know that when you get to that castle and all the soldiers empty out and the personnel are gone, that you’re not going to stay there alone and let yourself waste away.”

She bursts. “Well, maybe you should come _with_ me if you’re so worried about it!”

They stare at each other until she averts her eyes. “I’m sorry. That was unfair.”

“It was, but I understand where it’s coming from.” He sighs. “First… what happened with Solas-”

“Varric, please. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Maybe you should, with someone. Because I’m afraid you're either going to fall apart or do something reckless, and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

 _I’m all ready hurt,_ she thinks. _I can’t hurt much more than this._

Although it would be like Solas to make her eat those words.

“I’ll be careful, Varric.”

“That doesn’t…” He sighs. “I know you, First. I know you take care of everyone’s problems while ignoring your own. And you _can’t_ do that right now, okay? You just had major surgery, your life’s turned upside down again, and Chuckles-”

Varric stops himself. He purses his lips like there's a sour taste in his mouth. “Just promise me you’ll take care of yourself. I’m asking as your friend.”

She looks to him and nods.

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

“Good.” He turns and slides off the bed. “I don’t want to write any more letters. Once was one time too many.”

She doesn’t realize what he’s talking about until he’s already out the door.

 

* * *

 

“They don’t have to leave,” says Cole. “They would stay if you asked, if you told them you needed them to. _I_ would stay.”

She shakes her head. “No, Cole. They have their lives, and so do you.”

“You’re hurting, and you think you have to hurt because you don’t think you can be whole again. But that’s not true.”

She shakes her head.

He takes her hand. “You _will_ be whole again. You’ll heal. You'll feel it.”

It’s a nice thought, but she doesn’t believe him.


	4. Chapter 4

The wolf walks the courtyard outside her room, seemingly unnoticed by anyone.

She reaches for Cassandra, for Iron Bull, for Sera – each of them slides from her fingers. They look back at her, but they walk away. She doesn’t know if they hear her words or see what she’s pointing at.

She turns to go after the wolf herself, but it saunters into the crowd and is lost.

 

* * *

 

“Don’t tell me you believe it!”

“Why would the Inquisitor lie?”

“Because she’s saved the shems, and now they have no use for her. Didn’t you see her face? It’s as bare as Andraste’s! What Dalish removes their markings? I bet her clan won’t take her back, so she’s resurrected some Dalish legend to try and prove she hasn’t pandered to the shemlen religion since day one.”

Inan clenches her teeth to stop from crying out. She got out of bed to stretch her legs, brushing off Anise’s concerns, and now she wonders if she should have never left her room.

Is this really what the elves of Val Royeaux think of her? That she’s done _nothing_ to help her people?

“It was her hand that brought Marquise Briala to power,” says the younger sounding of the servant women. “Everyone knows that.”

“Yeah?” asks the other. “And did you hear about the ancient elven temple found in the Arbor Wilds? What knowledge from that was shared with us? And both times the Inquisitor came to Val Royeaux, has she set one foot inside the alienage?”

The younger servant says nothing.

“It’s not true,” the older woman insists. “And if it was, I certainly wouldn’t be concerned with this Fen’Harel ending the shemlen. The Inquisitor’s warning should be proof enough of which side she’s on.”

Inan flattens her back against the wall as the women pass by, completely unaware. She clenches her fist until her nails dig into her palm. She supposes that’s one advantage to only having one full arm – half the pain.

Once they’re gone from sight, she walks in a huff to the pub where Sera still resides and slumps down into a chair beside her. She’s about to order a drink when her friend punches her shoulder.

“How’s it going, Stumpy?”

Inan’s eyes widen in shock. She bursts into loud, high pitched laughter, then covers her mouth with her hand as sobs shake her instead.

Sera alights from where she sits on the table. “Too soon? It was too soon, wasn’t it? Inky?” She puts her hands on Inan’s shoulders. “Inky, I’m sorry. Say something!”

Inan drops her head into what’s left of her arms and sobs into the table.

 

* * *

 

“Fuck ‘em,” is Thom’s sage advice when Inan has finished telling everyone the conversation she overheard.

“You were saving the world,” Sera agrees. “Meaning everyone! It’s not your fault the elfy elves thought they deserved special treatment.”

“You can’t carry the world,” Varric says. “You’re only human – I mean – you know what I mean.”

“Boss,” Bull tells her once she’s broken away from the group. “I know what it’s like to feel you failed your people, but you’re the one who showed me… sometimes your people are wrong.”

Their words are comforting in the moment, and she’s heartened Varric and Thom managed to stay with her a little longer, but the effect fades as she walks back to her room. Her anger is long gone, replaced by tears she can’t seem to wipe away fast enough.

Anise fusses over her as soon as she enters. “My Lady, are you all right?”

She swallows her tears and climbs dutifully into bed without answering. Anise hovers around her, fluffing pillows, straightening blankets, and trying to make her comfortable.

Eventually she asks, “Do all the elven servants hate me?”

Anise stiffens. “My Lady, I…”

Inan turns to face her. “I want the truth.”

Anise hesitates and looks at the floor. For a moment, Inan is certain she won’t answer.

The young woman fidgets with her hands. “There are many who… feel you have done very little to aid your people.”

Moisture comes again to her eyes, and she looks away.

She’s thought of her people every day since she left her clan. She wanted to bring about change as Inquisitor, but at every turn that change seemed harder and harder to enact.

The Temple of Mythal was an important find, but so much of it went against everything she was taught. She worried how or if it would be accepted by the Dalish clans. More than that, she feared the consequences of making the temple known. Surely, it would be exploited or destroyed by humans before her people ever had time to study it. And she never was certain if all the sentinels had abandoned it or if to this day a tiny few remained, clinging to a purpose they could no longer fulfill but didn’t know how to walk away from. So the Inquisition kept quiet… but that didn’t stop rumors from spreading.

She was glad to discover the truth of Red Crossing. And it meant to so much to her to help Hawen’s clan in the Dales and to bring back the boy who had so wished to join the Inquisition. But those were small, inconsequential things that contributed nothing in alleviating her people’s oppression.

It was true she hadn’t stepped foot in the alienage of Val Royeaux. So much happened during Celene’s peace talks that she told herself there simply wasn’t time. But honestly, she couldn’t bring herself to walk through the alienage walls with no promises to give. Helping Briala rise to power had been her plan to improve the lives of the elves of Halamshiral. And to fulfill that plan, she had to let a woman die – a woman whose life she had no right to judge or condemn, and whose only crime, as far as she knew, was trying to better the lives of her people.

It was a decision that never sat right with her, even with the good she hoped it would bring. And that sacrifice, it seemed, had gone completely unnoticed by her people.

Perhaps her friends were right. Her clan had always been friendly with humans. And while she knew by history she couldn’t trust them to give her people fair treatment, her Keeper had always taught that humans and elves needed to learn to live together to survive in this world. She has to remind herself most elves carry a much more cynical view of humans than she, and that it was inevitable her fight to save both sides would be seen as treachery to some.

But she has no excuse. In her heart, she knows she didn’t do enough.

She used to talk to Solas in times like these, when she felt helpless to affect change. He would assure her that her duty as Inquisitor was to the world. And that while her desire to help her people was admirable, it would be selfish to focus her efforts to a single group.

But he would listen, and he would hold her hand, and he would tell her he understood her frustration, that he felt it himself, but that sometimes one’s hands were tied.

“There will be time, vhenan, once Corypheus is defeated to help your people,” he told her.

Looking back, she isn’t sure if he meant those words. How would she have time to help her people when he was intent on actions that would put the world in need of saving again?

But she knew his heart to be kind. While with the Inquisition, his only desire seemed to be to help, even in a world of people she now knew he hadn’t seen as real.

She couldn’t let their most recent encounter change him in her eyes. She’d seen the Solas she knew underneath the facade, in the weight of his words, in the depth of his sighs, in the way he looked at her for just a moment before he tightened his resolve.

He was still the man she knew. He still wanted to help. He just wanted it so badly it had twisted around in the other direction.

More than anything she wishes he was with her now, that she could go back in time to their talks in the rotunda where they bounced their frustrations off one another until they found comfort. She wishes she could ask him what she should do.

“Do better.”

She jumps at Anise’s voice, drawing her from her daydream.

The woman has lifted her gaze from the floor. “Show your people that you are willing to fight for them.”

They aren’t Solas’ words, but they are enough.

 

* * *

 

Cassandra and Josephine insist she rides to Halamshiral in a carriage. They will absolutely not let her _walk_. But she doesn’t want to enter in a state of grandeur, so they stop just outside the alienage walls and walk the rest of the way.

The primary wall and gate separating the alienage from the rest of Val Royeaux has been torn down, but the surrounding walls representing the perimeter of the city remain. Even so, there is a notable divide where the quality of the buildings drop and the quantity of pointed ears rises. It seems, even without walls, the humans and elves have little desire to mingle with one another.

As Inan steps down the street, she knows she should have thought this through more. As before, she has nothing to offer. She wanted to face her fears, but now she feels foolish at having been so impulsive.

The elves in the street stop to look at her, recognizing her by her uniform. Some ignore her or look away. Others watch, waiting to see what she’ll do.

There’s a beggar woman on the street corner, and Inan looks to Josephine who says, “Of course.”

She approaches the elven woman with coins. The woman slaps the coins out of Josephine’s hands and spits at her feet.

“Hey!” Cassandra cries.

Inan throws out her arm to stop her from storming forward. The witnessing elves break into whispers and murmurs, and she’s sure none of them are good.

“Let’s go.” Inan lowers her head and hurries further down the street.

When Solas explained the Dalish hadn’t accepted the knowledge he offered, she told him he simply hadn’t tried hard enough. If he had only continued, certainly he would have found a clan that would listen. At the very least, hers would have.

Now she knows how naive she had been. She didn’t realize how disheartening it was to come to her people with help and be rejected. It takes everything she has not to flee back to the carriage.

They enter a street where children of various ages are playing, and they circle around her.

“Inquisitor! Inquisitor!”

“You’re so pretty!”

“Can I see your sword?”

“What happened to your arm?”

“Mamae says you used to have markings on your face! Did the humans make you remove them?”

“When I grow up, I want to join the Inquisition!”

Their shouts come too fast for Inan to reply, but she takes each of their hands in turn as they reach for her. She smiles and ruffles a small boy’s curly hair. She gives one of the youngest girls her Inquisition pin.

An older boy holds up the ball they were kicking. “Inquisitor, will you play with us?”

She’s about to say yes, regardless of Josephine’s hurried excuses, when the adults arrive and pull their children away.

They are left in the street alone.

Inan sighs. “Come on.”

They head further in until reaching the most rundown part of the alienage where wooden boards are constructed in what Inan can barely consider houses. The district looks as though it might all fall over at any moment.

She shakes her head. She thought Briala would have done something about this.

She gives six sovereigns to a begging elf who lost his job. He falls at her feet, thanking her profusely. She tries to pull him back to his feet but doesn’t have the strength and ends up falling on the ground with him. Josephine and Cassandra help them both back up.

When he’s gone, Inan surveys the area. “Could we get our people out here to rebuild properly?”

Josephine bites her lip. “With the Inquisition disbanded, we have finite resources. The travel cost of sending our people out here… then there’s food and lodging, supplies, the trip back…” She shakes her head. “It would be much more efficient to make a donation through Briala or to the alienage directly and the let people here rebuild themselves.”

“But we’re not seen as physically doing anything.”

Josephine nods slowly. “We have agents to call back and send home, physical resources to be returned or distributed elsewhere, debts or favors to pay. Disbanding has its own costs that must be allocated before spending elsewhere.”

The tears that Inan held back the entire afternoon come to her now, and she turns away.

“Josephine…” Cassandra starts.

“No,” Inan says, wiping at her eyes. “She’s right. Of course, she’s right.”

She was deluded. There will never be a time to help her people. She was never a Herald for the elves.

“Let’s just go.”

 

* * *

 

Cassandra finds her that evening crying on the balcony.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

Inan shakes her head. She leans over the balcony, letting the tears fall. “All I ever wanted was to help. Ferelden, Orlais, the elves… none of them seem to appreciate it. What have I been wasting my life on these past three years?”

“You didn’t waste it,” Cassandra insists. “You–”

Inan rounds on her. “You had the nerve to stand there and tell me being Inquisitor had brought me good things! What are they, Cassandra? Name one!”

Her friend takes a step back.

“I’ve lost my home! I’ve lost my people! I’ve lost my–” She touches her face and stalls. She can’t even begin to explain what the vallaslin meant to her; her religion, her identity, her heritage… all gone.

“Solas.” She sobs his name as she remembers that night by the water. She let him take the vallaslin, back when the pain of letting her past go was eased by the blissful hope of a future at his side.

That dream had vanished too.

She turns back to the balcony and rubs her stump of an arm. She’s already sacrificed so much, and with Solas’ mission the cost seems only more likely to grow.

“You have your friends,” Cassandra tells her.

She gives a bitter laugh. “Friends who are leaving or who have already left.” She clenches the railing. “You have homes to go back to. I don’t.”

Cassandra steps toward her again, hand outstretched.

Inan twists away from her, snarling, “ _Don’t touch me!_ ”

Cassandra steps back again.

Inan takes a breath, trying to quell her rising anger. Hot tears fall from her eyes. “I can’t stay here, Cassandra.”

Her friend blinks. “What do you mean?”

“I hate this place. I hate these people. I hate the aleinage and its squalor. I hate the humans and their stupid game. I hate this damned palace!” She kicks the balcony railing and accepts the pain to her toes. “I hate lying helpless in that stupid bed. I hate watching all of my friends leave. I hate waiting for my life to pull itself back together.” A sob escapes from her throat, and she brings her hand to her face. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

"You have to," Cassandra tells her.

"I can't. Are you not listening?!"

Cassandra hesitates. “Your arm still needs time to heal. And the seasons are changing – you know you always catch cold. Traveling right now is not a good idea.”

“Please, Cassandra. I can’t…” She points behind her, not bothering to look. “Every time I walk out here I’m reminded of that damned room where we found the eluvian. Everything here is just…” She turns to face her friend. “I can’t move forward here, Cassandra. _Please_ , I’m begging you. Don’t make me stay–” Another sob stops her from continuing.

Her friend bites her lip, looking near tears herself. “I’ll confer with Josephine.”

Inan nods her thanks, too afraid to open her mouth.

“Do you need anything?”

She shakes her head. But Cassandra walks up to her, and puts her arms around her.

She wishes she could just stop crying.


	5. Chapter 5

She’s relieved to return to Skyhold. But the journey is long, and Cassandra’s fears are justified.

At first, it’s just a cough. Then the cough moves to her chest and breathing becomes a gurgley mess.

Then the fever comes.

She's delirious by the time they finally arrive and lay her on her familiar bed. She slips in and out of conscious, unsure of how much time has passed or what is real.

Someone squeezes her hand, speaks words she can’t understand, and presses a cold cloth to her head.

She is no longer at Skyhold. She is somewhere else, held in arms she’d know anywhere. A voice speaks to her that is unmistakable.

“You have to get better, vhenan. You have to fight.”

“I’m so tired, Solas.” She can’t even turn her head to see his face. “I’m… so tired.”

His arms tighten around her. “I know, vhenan. But you have to keep going. You have to hold on.”

“I don’t think… I can.” Even speaking is hard.

“Vhenan, please.” Drops of something wet fall onto her face. “There are people who love you. Fight for them. Fight for your friends.”

 

Her friends are gone. She knows this and is at peace. “They’ll be okay… without me.”

“Vhenan…”

Someone is sobbing. 

More drops fall on her face.

She wants to reassure him it will be all right, but she can’t find the strength.

There is nothing but the sobbing, and it seems fitting that this is how it will end, hearing the cries all around her without the painful racking of her body.

Then a voice rises into the air. It wavers at first and becomes stronger, clearer. It rings in her ears.

She doesn’t know the words, but the voice is beautiful. She clings to it, trying to grasp it from the air, to hold it, to force her consciousness to it, to understand.

She catches “ma vhenan” over and over. She wraps her mind round those words, rising with them. She allows her spirit to float with the song, to leave her body, to find comfort and solace.

She has no more need to fight but simply to be. The song holds her aloft when her own strength cannot.

The song ends.

Someone next to her takes shaking breaths.

“Beautiful,” she breathes.

Solas presses a wet kiss into her forehead. Or is it her forehead that is wet?

“I shall sing it for you again, vhenan.”

His voice carries her up, and she knows nothing else.

Her fever bursts like a bubble, drenching her in cold sweat.

A large calloused hand squeezes hers.

Cassandra’s voice cries, “Thank the Maker!”

 

* * *

 

She awakes in her bed, disoriented, but feeling restful.

Cassandra sits in a chair beside her, her torso slumped over the bed as she sleeps, her hand holding Inan’s.

She wrestles her fingers free from Cassandra's and gives her friend's shoulder a shake.

Cassandra lifts her head. “You’re awake!” She clambers onto the bed and presses her hand to her friend's forehead. “How do you feel?”

“Fine,” she says. “Like I slept for weeks.”

Cassandra settles back into her chair. “You scared all of us.”

“What happened?”

“You caught a cold, like I said you would.” She pauses and clears her throat as though to wring the accusation from her voice. “You had an infection. The healer could only do so much. We thought… we thought we’d lost you.”

Inan irons her face with her hand, still groggy from sleep. “I had a dream. It was… strange. Solas was in it. He… he sang to me. He kept me from letting go.”

Cassandra purses her lips. “I’m glad you can think of him kindly. And I… I envy your ability to do so. But don’t delude yourself as to who he is and what he’s done.”

Inan stares at her. Surely she, more than anyone, knows who Solas is and what he’s done.

Cassandra grips her shoulder. “You just awoke. I’m sure you’re hungry.”

Inan nods, biting back her abrasive comments.

“Let me get you some broth.”

 

* * *

 

Iron Bull returns with the soup. There are bags under his eyes, and his posture is somewhat slumped, but he’s smiling. “Glad to see you awake, Boss.”

“Sorry I scared everyone," she says.

He shakes his head. “You just focus on getting well.”

He lays the bowl in her lap, and as her fingers brush his, she feels his callouses.

“Bull…” she starts. He looks at her with his large, tired eyes, and she decides not to ask how long he stayed by her side. “Why did you come with us? I know you have places to be like everyone else.”

He shakes his head. “I think I’m needed here for now.”

She laughs. “To wait on me? Anise can do that.”

As if on cue, the young woman comes through the door. “My Lady! Thank goodness you’re all right!” She sets straight away to addressing the comfortableness of the bed.

Inan shoots Bull a pointed look, and he chuckles.

“You just rest, Boss. We’ll talk later.” He heads for the door, about to leave her at Anise’s mercy before he catches the door frame and peeks his head back in. “I hope you don’t mind. I borrowed your crystal.”

She can only imagine him and Dorian speaking with each other into the late hours of the night, seeking comfort while they waited to know whether or not she’d pull through.

“Hold on to it,” she says. “I’m sure I’m not much for conversation right now.”

He winks at her before he leaves.

 

* * *

 

She sleeps for another day or two, and her dreams are just as disoriented as before.

She’s running through a dense forest, branches snagging her clothing and underbrush tripping her feet. She keeps trudging forward, feeling like something more than the greenery is holding back.

She can feel him out there – Solas or the wolf, forever out of sight. At every moment she senses he’s just a step ahead of her, but no matter how hard to she pushes herself, she cannot reach him.

He does not want her to.

 

* * *

 

When she’s tired of resting, she walks out to the rotunda. The effort tires her more than she thought it would, and upon reaching the door, she clings to the frame to hold herself upright.

Always she's felt Solas’ presence here. At times, it's caused her pain. Today, it gives her some comfort.

It was in this room, years ago, when she first walked consciously through the Fade. She hadn’t recognized it as such at the time. She walked right up to Solas as though it had been any normal wakeful hour.

_You continue to surprise me._

His voice rings through her head, and she closes her eyes, letting the memory wash over her.

_You were a mystery. You still are._

If she had walked consciously through the Fade once on her own, could she do it again? The anchor seemed to be the key that allowed her to do what she hadn’t been capable of before. Now that it was gone, did it make Fadewalking impossible? Or had her mind become attuned to it? Could she manage the feat with a little practice?

The dreams she’s had lately… are they simply dreams or something more?

“Inan?”

She jumps at Josephine’s voice.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?”

She straightens herself and is pleased to find she has the strength to stand. “I’m okay, for the moment.”

Josephine steps beside her, and her eyes sweep the murals on the walls. “It’s strange to think once everything is gone from this castle, these will still remain.”

“Solas wanted it that way. For the Inquisitor’s deeds to always be known.”

To this day, she isn’t certain how she feels about that. Had Solas simply been a record keeper? Had his work been nothing more than another duty to perform? An art to perfect? Or was there love in those strokes? Or bitterness at the choices she made he didn’t agree with?

She used to watch him as he painted in his careful diligence. She marveled in the gentle curves of his fingers, how gracefully he held each stroke. She’d driven herself mad imagining those fingers on her skin.

Had it all meant far less to him than it had for her?

Josephine sighs, drawing her from her thoughts. “It will be a shame to see the library go.”

Inan looks up where the shelves from the floor above can be seen over the balcony railing. Her mind churns.

“Solas had a list!” she says. “Of books he was studying!” She looks to the desk and remembers how she raised the Void in this room the night she finally accepted he wasn’t coming back.

He had left the Inquisition just as he had left her; suddenly and without any explanation. In response, She destroyed the scaffolding and the furniture. She set all his papers and careful notes aflame.

“I suppose… we don’t have that anymore,” she finishes.

Josephine shakes her head. “I made a copy of everything.”

Inan turns to stare at her.

She smiles. “I’ll tell the owner we ‘misplaced’ those books while we return the others.”

“Thank you, Josephine.”

She nods and turns away.

“And elves!” Inan tells her. “We should keep anything even remotely related to the elves, along with the Veil or the Fade.”

“Done,” she says.

Inan watches her walk away before returning to the rotundra. Her eyes linger over the room, but as usual, it has no secrets to reveal to her.

She returns to her bed, and Anise immediately takes to fluffing her pillows.

“Do you need anything?”

She gives the same instructions she gave to Josephine – anything on elves, the Veil, or the Fade.

Anise returns with her arms laden with books, and Inan starts immediately on researching.

 

* * *

 

“You shouldn’t work so hard, vhenan. You need to take care of yourself.”

The book she’s been reading slips from her fingers. She’s slumped over Solas’ desk in the rotunda, the side of her face pressed against its surface, her lower body sitting in the high back chair.

Solas kneels and slips his arm around her. “Come on. This is no place to rest.” He leads her toward the sofa.

“Wait.” She digs in her heels. There was something she needed to ask him, something important, but she can’t remember what it was.

He guides her to the sofa as though she’s offered no resistance. He lays her down and covers her with a blanket.

“Rest, vhenan.” He kisses her forehead and turns to leave.

She catches his hand. “Solas.”

Something important… what _was_ it?

He kneels in front of her, his fingers working gently to undo hers. “Vhenan _–_ ”

“Is this real?”

His eyes catch hers but reveal nothing.

“Is this real?” she repeats, her voice pitching. “Is it real?”

She asks him over and over. She doesn’t even realize what she’s saying, only that she needs his answer.

“Vhenan, calm down.” He continues to pry at her fingers that have become like an iron grip on his arm. “You’re going to–”

She screams her question at him. The room pitches and turns. A dark hole opens up beneath her and she tumbles in, fighting against the blanket that falls with her.

“My Lady! My Lady! Be calm!”

Inan shrieks, flailing at the bed sheets that have entangled her.

“It’s just a dream!” Anise insists. “A bad dream!”

She continues to struggle until she’s free and takes a hard tumble onto the floor. Her stump smacks against the hard stone surface, and she yelps, cradling her arm to her chest.

Anise helps her to her feet and inspects her bandages. There doesn’t appear to be any damages, thankfully.

Inan rubs her arm, just as confused as to the realism of her dreams as before. If she is visiting him or him visiting her? Or are they nothing more than simple dreams, and she is hoping for far too much?

Anise tries to ease her back into bed, but she is far too awake. “Take me out to the rotunda.”

Anise shakes her head. “My Lady, you should rest.”

“Help me,” Inan insists. “Or I will do it myself.”

Anise relents and slides an arm around her waist. They return to the room where Solas resided. And once they’ve made their way to the far end, Inan lets go of Anise to grasp a sheet hanging from the railing above. She pulls with her good arm until the knots above give way and the sheet falls to reveal the outline of a wolf and dragon.

She hated this painting the moment she first laid eyes on it. To come back from the battle with Corypheus, to have Solas gone, and to find this here…

She still doesn’t understand what Solas meant by it. Is it a warning? A cry for help? Or perhaps his way of giving her an answer he couldn’t outright say?

She understands now, for the first time, that the wolf is him and the dragon Mythal. But the dagger in the dragon’s back…?

Abelas said the Dread Wolf had nothing to do with Mythal’s murder. Was this an image from the past? Solas finding Mythal cut down? It seemed too simple. Always she felt something sinister in these brush strokes.

Was it something Solas meant to do? A future event? Would he turn on one of his oldest friends?

 _Why_ would he leave this for her?

She hits the wall with her fist. Why would he run from her but leave just enough for her to cling to?

“Where are you?” she whispers to the plaster. “How do I find you?”

For the past two years, she’s been searching for an answer.

She feels no closer now than she has before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are interested in the song Solas sings to her: http://geeky-jez.tumblr.com/post/123825095028/


	6. Chapter 6

She sleeps _a lot_ but hears no complaints. She imagines her friends are thankful she’s finally taken the healer’s advice to rest. No one has any idea what she’s really doing. Even poor Anise, who has to shake her awake from fitful dreams, has no clue as to why they have been so vivid as of late or that such a thing is even abnormal.

She gets better at lucidity while dreaming. She no longer has to force it.

She sits next to Solas on the scaffolding while he paints. His movements are fluid, second nature. She’s certain he could do it with his eyes closed.

“Can I try?”

His fingers twitch, and he turns his head to look at her. “Of course.” His voice is high, floaty, like he’s been waiting forever for her ask. Never in real life did she have the courage to.

He holds out the brush to her.

She takes it but doesn’t touch it to the plaster. The same fear holds her back. “I don’t want to mess anything up.”

He shakes his head. “Nonsense.”

His hand reaches for hers, and she notices the slight hesitation before he takes her fingers in his, raises them, and presses them gently against the wall.

She shivers at the first brush stroke and hopes he doesn’t notice.

He gives no indication as he guides her hand up and down, but she’s sure he’s hiding his awareness.

Unless this is nothing more than a dream. Unless he is only a figment of her imagination.

“Is this real?” she asks.

He turns to her. “Of course it’s real, vhenan.” There is no hesitation in his voice or his movements. He turns back to the wall as though she asked nothing out of the ordinary.

She wants to smack his hand from hers and throw the brush across the room. She wants to dive off the scaffolding just to see if she can get any kind of reaction from him. She is tired of this game. She _knows_ he’s in her dreams somewhere. She just can’t make sense of them.

But then she is more angry at him than the game, and she forces herself awake. For the first time since arriving at Skyhold, she marches from her room, through the grand hall, and out to the courtyard with the practice dummies.

It’s impossible for her to determine whether her nightly runs through a dense forest are spent chasing a real or figmental wolf. And no matter how genuine his voice, touch, or mannerisms seem, the Solas in her dreams proves every bit as problematic. If it has ever truly been him, he’s kept her from knowing.

She picks up a practice sword, heavy and blunt, but she wants the extra weight in this case. She swings, nearly toppling over herself. She never realized how much she used her other arm for a balance.

_Can’t even wield a damn sword._

She balls up her frustration, holding it in her stomach as she swings again, still wobbly but firm. The force of the sword hitting the wood travels up her arm, but it is release, not pain. She hits the practice dummy over and over, each _thwack_ a tiny shock wave that channels her frustration.

She cries out, letting her anger breathe. Her next few swings result in lodging the sword into the dummy’s shoulder, and try as she might, she can’t remove it one-handed. Amused laughter makes her turn around.

“I should not be surprised,” says Cassandra as she approaches. “I should have known you’d be out here sooner or later.”

Inan sighs and turns to the sword still lodged in the dummy. Cassandra pulls it out for her with both hands. “If you are concerned about your fighting skills, I saw no marked difference. Once you find your balance again, you’ll be ready for the field again.”

Inan runs a hand through her short cropped hair. “It’s not that.”

“Then what troubles you?”

She hesitates, certain Cassandra will not like the answer. “More dreams.”

Cassandra’s lips thin, and her nostrils flare just slightly. She turns her face away, and when she looks back at her friend, she’s softened a bit. “I’m sorry I was so cross before. What Solas has put you through, I-” She stops. “I can’t imagine what you are going through.”

Inan shakes her head. She doesn’t think anyone could truly understand the warring thoughts and emotions inside her. She can barely keep track of them herself.

Cassandra places the sword back on the weapon rack and takes her friend’s arm. “I have something to show you.”

She leads her to the kitchens where a fresh batch of blueberry turnovers sits on a table.

“You baked these yourself?” Inan asks.

Cassandra laughs. “I tried. But it turns out I’m as lousy at baking as I am at writing. Luckily, we still have a cook.” She picks a pastry from the plate. “Anthony and I had a tradition where we-” She stops, her hands poised to rip the turnover in half. “Well… it’s never too late to start new traditions.” She grabs a corner with her teeth and rips it off.

Inan mimics her, the soft buttery crust and sweet blueberries delighting her insides all the way down. “Thank you, Cassandra.” The words feel inadequate. To be allowed in on a ritual Cassandra and her bother had shared means more than she could ever describe.

“You had me worried,” she admits. “Since when do you follow a healer’s advice? I thought perhaps you could use some cheering up.”

Inan nods, her mouth too full of warm blueberries to answer.

“If you ever need anything,” she says. “You know I’m here.”

Inan nods. “What will you do once the Inquisition is fully disbanded?”

Cassandra sighs. “Leliana has asked me to serve as right hand. I… have not yet accepted.”

“What about restoring the Seekers?”

Cassandra nods. “That is one of the reasons I have delayed a decision.”

“Just one?”

“Someone has to watch after you.”

Inan smiles, though she isn’t certain how much having someone to watch over her will help.

“What will _you_ do?”

“I don’t know,” she admits.

“You always talked about returning to your clan.”

The blueberries turn bitter on her tongue. “I don’t think that’s an option anymore.”

“You’ve done and accomplished so much,” Cassandra tells her. “Surely that would mean something to them.”

“Not in the way you think.”

“What do you mean?”

She nearly says, “They would never accept The Herald of Andraste.” But it’s more than that, much more.

_I’m in love with Fen’Harel._

She knows it’s the truth, underneath the pain and anger and swirling questions, she knows she never stopped loving him. A new name and a dark past didn’t change a damn thing.

And _harel-lan_ is the Dalish word for “traitor.”

If heralding the shems’ god didn’t turn her clan against her, any attempt to explain the truth about her relationship with Fen’Harel certainly would. She cannot go back to them.

And as much as she cherishes her friendship with the woman sitting across from her, Cassandra has never made any effort to understand Dalish religion nor her aversion to being called the Herald. And she understands her still held affinity for Solas even less.

Blueberry turnovers, no matter how good, cannot fix that.

“Forget it,” she says. “It’s not important.”

She can’t eat any more turnovers after that. Cassandra insists she take the leftovers, which she does. But upon returning to her room, she gives them to Anise instead.

“My treat,” she tells her.

She hates looking at her bed. All this time trying to reach someone who doesn’t seem interested in trying to reach her. She’s back in time over two years ago when Solas broke up with her and hadn’t the decency to explain why. All those days and nights spent wondering if she had been nothing to him, if he were oblivious to the pain he was causing her.

Solas might have good reasons for keeping his distance – back then too – but it all feels like bullshit to her. And she’s tired of feeling like this.

She flees her room, desperate for a change of scenery, and finds herself in the one place at Skyhold she can’t help coming back to; the rotundra.

The paintings have never failed to comfort her, and she doesn’t know why. Something about the room simply holds her in a way that’s soothing.

Perhaps it’s that the room feels timeless. Nothing in it has changed over the past three years, whereas everywhere else she can already see time slipping away. Just a glance at the balcony above tells her there’s already gaps in the books lining the shelves.

Everything changes. Nothing stays the same. Except here. Even after everyone has left and there is no sign of the Inquisition, these paintings will be here.

She tries looking through the books Josephine has saved for her. But anything involving Solas feels pointless, and her frustration has exhausted her. She grabs a blanket, curls up on the sofa, and dreams.

It takes her some time to realize she’s dreaming and choose to take control. She finds herself standing beside a tree just outside the perimeter of her clan’s camp. She can smell the camp fire, hear voices talking or laughing. There’s isn’t too much she can see within the circle of aravels, but she doesn’t approach for a better look. She feels much safer lingering.

Just when she’s thinking of what she wouldn’t give to see her Keeper’s face again, he appears, rounding the back of an aravel. Fear strikes her stomach that he might see her, and his eyes rise to meet hers.

It takes everything in her not to run.

“Andaran atish'an, Keeper.” Her voice is hoarse, and the words barely squeak out. She’s not certain he hears.

His long braided white hair, tanned skin, and Sylaise vallaslin are so familiar, but he approaches her like a stranger, slowly and with caution.

What if this too has changed? What if he doesn't recognize her at all? What wouldn’t she give to hear him call her da’len again?

His eyes roll over her, from her foreign clothes to the nonexistent vallaslin on her face.

She tries to ignore her fear, to push it away. She closes her eyes and tells herself he will not shun her. She is not a stranger. He will remember her. The real Keeper Deshanna _would_ remember her.

“Da’len?”

She opens her eyes, and her Keeper spreads his arms.

“Aneth ara, da’len.”

She runs into his embrace, and it’s every bit as warm and welcoming as she's ever known it to be. She cannot help the tears that flow down her face.

“Oh, da’len,” Deshanna says as he takes her face in his hands, brushing away a tear with his thumb. “What has happened to you? Were the humans cruel?”

“No, Keeper.” She shakes her face from his hands and buries it in his shoulder, suppressing a sob against it.

His arms come around her once more. “Be at peace, da'len. You are home now.”

She holds him tighter, suppressing more sobs until she realizes she’s hugging him with both arms.

She pulls back, staring at her left arm, which is whole and complete and anchor free. Is this always how she appears in the Fade? She hadn't noticed.

She looks up at the Keeper, and he smiles and takes the hand she’s been staring at. “Come.”

She follows him into the aravel, which is cramped and filled with cabinets, barrels, and shelves that hold artifacts, food stores, and other supplies. She runs her hands over the items and takes in deep the scent of age and wood. She has missed this so incredibly much.

The Keeper gestures at a cabinet above her head. “Grab a pair of glasses, _da'len_. Your return calls for a celebration.”

She retrieves the clay mugs, stunned once more that she has two hands to do it with. Deshanna busies himself with one of the barrels used for distilling wine, usually reserved for special occasions such as births or bondings.

He hands her one of the mugs, and she inhales in the dry, fruity scent. She realizes she lied when she told Dorian the Tevinter rose wine was better than home. She’d simply forgotten what home tasted like.

She has to remind herself as she sips that this is not home anymore. And when she looks back up, Deshanna’s eyes are trailing along her face again.

Her stomach turns over. She cannot meet his gaze. “I meant no disrespect, Keeper.”

“Why, da’len?” he asks. “The clan will not understand.”

“I know.” They are back to this again, her homecoming spoiled, as surely as it would be if she were to return for real.

She sits her unfinished cup on a shelf. She doesn’t want it anymore.

“I met someone,” she says. “A somniari. He’s seen things, more things the clan will not understand.”

“Do you believe him?” The Keeper asks.

“I do.”

 _I love him_ , she thinks, and Deshanna steps forward, looming over her. She closes her eyes again. The real Deshanna would never appear angered with her.

“You always have a place here, da’len,” he says, full of warmth once more.

She opens her eyes and shakes her head. “You say that in every one of your letters.”

“Because it is true.”

“Where would I fit, Keeper?”

“Tamen is First now, but we still have room for a Second.”

She shakes her head again. She cannot continue telling stories and cataloging artifacts when the meanings have changed irrefutably for her.

“You could help Master Lorien. Or tend the halla – you’ve always enjoyed that.”

That is true. But she can not ignore her life now. She can not slip back unnoticed into the forest, no matter how deeply she longs to. A life among her clan, where she is no longer at play with the larger goings on of the world, though ideal, would not fit her, not anymore.

“I don’t think I belong here, Keeper. I want to, but I don’t think I do.”

Deshanna takes her hands. “Wherever you go, da’len, you will always carry us with you.” He kisses her forehead.

She squeezes his hands, wishing that this moment would never end, that she could stay in his comforting aura forever. She does not want the dream to continue.

So instead, it fades. She and Keeper Deshanna dissolve into nothing until she open her eyes and is back in the rotunda once more.

She rolls over and sobs as quietly as she can against the sofa cushions.


	7. Chapter 7

“It’s good to see you up and about.” Josephine walks to the desk where Inan sits in the muraled rotunda.

“Thanks for the books,” Inan tells her.

She nods. “Find anything?”

“Not really.” But she’s been taking notes of anything even remotely interesting, bits and pieces she hopes might add up to something eventually.

“Well,” says Josephine. “Since you’re feeling better, Cullen and I wanted to know if you’d be up to sending off our first group of soldiers.”

Inan groans inwardly. She hates making speeches.

“Nothing grand!” Josephine assures her. “But I think it would help if you were there. Maybe shake their hands as they leave? Many of them feel… dejected at the disbandment. And seeing your face-”

“Might give them reason to yell at me?”

Josephine shakes her head. “Our agents _love_ you. You’re their Herald.”

Three years and any mention of her “connection” to the shemlen religion still makes her stomach turn.

But it’s not like she has a choice. She’s never really had a choice. And one doesn’t turn down a request from Josephine.

“I won’t have to make a speech?”

She shakes her head. “No speeches. Just be present. You only to need to speak if you want to.”

Twenty minutes later as she stands next to Cullen and sees the men and women in front of her, she realizes the trap she walked into. _Of course_ she has to make a speech. How could her troops expect anything less?

She’s thankful she has Cullen’s arm. She was reluctant to take it when he offered, insistent she could stand on her own. But now she realizes the unified visual it provides – that her Commander stands with her fully. And as a wave of emotional fatigue takes her, she’s grateful for his strength.

She clears her throat and finds her voice. She looks out over the some two hundred faces before her.

“I know you’re disappointed,” she tells them. “The Inquisition has always been a beacon of hope. Why would I take that away?”

Eyes in the crowd lock on to hers, eagerly awaiting her explanation.

“The Inquisition of old did not last forever. They led a charge, and when their work was done, they hung up their swords and went home. We sought to restore order, and we have succeeded. Ferelden and Orlais no longer need an army beyond their own. And so it is time for the Inquisition to retire, not in defeat but victory. Know that you each played a part in stopping Corypheus. You return home as heroes. Be proud of what you have accomplished because we could not have done it without you.”

She thinks it's a terrible sendoff, but a good number of the faces before her smile. Others still aren’t convinced. Whispers sweep through the crowd before the more devoted soldiers nudge their companions in a demand for respect. But she thinks she caught “Fen’Harel.”

Maybe she’s imagining things. She isn’t sure how much the Inquisition agents know of what happened during the Exaulted Counsel. Though she knows her personal counsel tried to keep things quiet, if the servants of Val Royeaux knew…

It’s not like it matters now. She isn’t here to convince them, just to send them off. And as she takes each soldier's hand in turn and looks into their unfamiliar faces, she knows she did the right thing. She didn’t disband the Inquisition for Solas’ sake – she had full intentions to end the organization before even reaching Val Royeaux – but if she is to face him, she won’t do so with an army. That, she’s certain, is the surest way to get a lot of people killed.

“You did good,” Cullen says when the last soldier has walked beyond the castle gate.

“Think so?” She feels dizzy all of a sudden, the air too thin.

“Are you okay?” Cullen’s arm slides around her waist, steadying her.

She leans against him. “I’m not sure I had lunch.”

“Maker’s Breath, you have to eat.”

“You know how I get lost in books.”

He chuckles and escorts her to the kitchens where she descends upon a pile of meat pies. She hopes they weren’t intended for anyone important.

He watches her, a tenderness in his eyes that she’s seen before, and she lowers her gaze from them.

He sighs. “A new group relieved of service every week or so, and within a few months, you’ll have no further need of a commander.”

“Where will you go?” she asks.

“Home to my family. It’s been a while since they’ve seen me.”

“That will be good,” she says. “I’m sure they miss you.”

He nods. “What will you do once this is over?”

She heaves a sigh and uses chewing as an excuse to think. She’s tired of the question and even more exasperated by the fact that she can’t fully answer. “I haven’t decided.” She waits for the inevitable suggestion of returning to her clan.

“I must admit,” Cullen gazes down at the wooden table as he runs his fingers along the grain. “I’d rather thought that you’d…” He clears his throat and looks up at her. “That you’d go after him.”

The meat pie to turns to ash in her mouth, and she forces herself to swallow. She cannot meet his gaze.

“You are, aren’t you?!” He exclaims. “Once the Inquisition is fully disbanded, you intend to go after him yourself!”

“No!” she tells him earnestly. “Gods, no!

“But you _are_ searching for him?” he presses. “Josephine told me of the books you requested.”

Her skin prickles in irritation. “Yes, I’m searching for him. But I–”

“Do you still _love_ him?”

She’s nearly knocked off balance by the question, and once she’s recovered, she has no satisfactory answer.

Cullen curses under his breath. “If you disbanded the Inquisition under some misguided notion of–”

“Of what?!” she screams back at him.

They stare at each other in fury, and she swears if he implies trying to save him is a fools errand, she’ll throw a pie at his face.

But instead he says, “How many times does he have to hurt you?”

All the fight drains out of her, and she looks down at the pie she holds – a little misshapen now, and some of the filling has squeezed out. “Cullen, it… it’s not that simple.”

“It seems simple from where I’m standing.”

She snaps her head up, furious again. “I’m sorry I don’t love _you_!”

He stiffens, his face coloring. “That’s not – this isn’t – I never meant–” He turns on his heel and strides for the door. “I hope you – I hope he deserves such devotion.”

Then he passes through the door and is gone.

Inan curses and throws the now mangled meat pie into the fireplace.

 

* * *

 

“How did it go?” Josphine asks when Inan approaches the diplomat’s desk.

She hesitates and wonders if she’ll ever be able to look Cullen in the face again. He shouldn’t have said what he did, but neither should she. She is not looking forward to however many more of these sendoffs she’ll have to facilitate. But it’s not something Josephine needs to know. “It went well enough.”

“I took the liberty of arranging an extra month’s payment for each of our people,” Josephine tells her. “It will give them enough funds to return home and feed their families for a short while as they hunt for work. I should have run it by you first, but I assumed you would approve.”

“Yes.” Inan tells her. “Josephine, that’s fantastic!” But her enthusiasm falters as her thoughts turn to the book in her hand.

“You wished to discuss something else?”

“Yes,” she says. “But I don’t suppose…” She holds out the book, and Josphine takes it. “I was hoping we could find a translator, but with our funds…” Josephine sighs, confirming her fears. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was important.”

“I know you wouldn’t.” She flips through the book’s pages, all of which are written in ancient elven likely mixed with Tivene. _Elvehan Diis Falsis: Triew Metod Dracas._ Her lips thin. “This is about Solas.”

Inan does not like her tone. “I’m trying to find some clues as to what he’s planning, yes.”

“You know what he’s planning.”

“I don’t know how to stop it.”

Josephine’s gaze rises to hers, sharp and piercing. “You disbanded the Inquisition. What do you expect to stop him with?”

Inan takes a deep breath. “I know you disagree with my decision.”

She’s seen Josephine animated, gesturing wildly in the heat of an argument, but never at her. “There’s so much good that we’ve done – so much more that we could do! Fen’Harel is out there somewhere, and instead of strengthening our alliances, you dash to pieces everything we have worked so hard to gain! He is building an army as we speak, and you want to translate a _book_!” She slams the tome on the table, her cheeks flushed.

Inan stares back at her, her own face burning. It seems all she can do today is earn the ire of her friends, and she has no words to placate them. “What’s done is done.”

Some of the heat drains from Josephine’s face. Her glare diminishes. “Yes, I… I suppose it is.” She averts her gaze and lowers back into her chair.

She places her hands against her desk as she stares at the tome, and for a moment Inan is certain she will say there is nothing that can be done about the book. But then she smacks her lips. “I will look for a translator.”

“Thank you, Josephine.” She is sincere.

She gives a wave of her hand, surely to say it is of no consequence. But Inan accepts it as a dismissal and leaves the ambassador’s chambers.

Her anger simmers with the lack of an apology. She never would have accepted one anyway. She’d much rather Josephine apologize when she meant it, not for the sake of diplomacy. And even if Josephine could have meant it so shortly after such an argument, Inan would have never believed her.

She hates that her friends know her so well in so many little ways, but it seems so hard for them to understand the burden of being Inquisitor, the sting of standing as Andraste’s Herald, the pain of leaving her family and everything she had ever known in her old life behind. Instead, they had pressed the title of Andraste’s prophet on her as though it were a blessing, as though she should be grateful to be lifted so highly within a religion that had nearly destroyed her people.

They hadn’t even asked her if she wanted to be Inquisitor. Cassandra had simply approached her like any normal conversation and led her up a flight of stairs where Leliana held a sword and they were standing before dozens of people. They had _trapped_ her because they knew if asked she would have turned them down flat and ran home.

Nothing had been her choice since the moment she touched that damn orb, and now that she finally made one that was for herself – after three long years of doing everything for everybody else – no one seemed to understand how she could be so ‘selfish.’

“My, Lady–”

She brushes passed Anise and slams her bedroom door in the poor woman’s face. She seizes a pillow from her bed and flings it across the room at her dresser, the metal fastenings clinking from the force. She grabs a second pillow and does the same.

She sits on the bed, nearly toppling over as she attempts to steady herself with her amputated arm.

_Haven’t I sacrificed enough?_

They were right to trap her, she concedes once her temper has died down. She _would_ have told them no. And that would have been the wrong decision, just as running back to her clan would have been disastrous. They needed her, and she needed them. There was no other way of sealing the rifts, of stopping Corypheus, of keeping the Mark on her hand from killing her.

But sometimes she wishes…

 _It takes everything from you_ , she told Ameridan, the last Inquisitor, who had literally lost everything and everyone he had ever known and loved.

And the world had given him little respect beyond remembering much of anything about him besides his name.

For the past three years she gave the world everything. Is it selfish of her to think the world owed her a little something back in return?

 

* * *

 

When she dreams, she finds herself standing in Skyhold’s front courtyard. People pass her by, and none of them will look at her. She gets the distinct impression all of them are displeased with her and if she were to call after any of them, they’d just keep walking.

She closes her eyes, stills her mind, and opens them again to find the people have vanished.

 _Solas_.

She reaches out with her thoughts and emotions, feeling, wanting. She doesn’t understand how it works, only that Solas seems to show up in her dreams when she’s thinking about him the hardest.

Tonight is no exception. He comes walking through the castle gates, gazing up at the entrance to Skyhold’s main hall.

“Interesting choice,” he says to himself.

Her right hand is suddenly warm and slightly heavier than normal. She slings it at him, and the meat pie she meant for Cullen hits the side of his face.

“Alugh!” Solas cries out in surprise and disgust.

 _Real then_ , she decides.

She strides over to him, her fists clenched.

Solas finishes brushing the remains of pie from his cheek and looks up at her. His lips twitch in a soft smile. “Hello, vhenan.”

She wonders if he has any idea how much each ‘vhenan’ pangs her heart. “Why?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t play dumb with me!” she snaps. “You’ve been pretending this whole time it hasn’t really been you, and I’m sick of it!”

He blinks.

“Why?” she demands. “Why play this game?”

He stares at her.

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she's been deluding herself this whole time.

Then he sighs, and it’s like a mountain of weight falls onto his features. She almost prefers the softer, smiling Solas.

“I was hoping to avoid…” He gestures between them. “This.”

“You were hoping to avoid _talking_ to me?”

“I was hoping to avoid disorienting you,” he corrects. “At first, I didn’t know how much control you had – how much consciousness. To act contrary to your dreaming would be… unwise.”

“And after?” she presses.

He shakes his head. “I know you have questions, vhenan. And they are questions I cannot answer, or answers that will only cause you more pain. I was hoping I could find a way to stop this.”

“What do you mean?”

“It seems the Fade keeps pulling us together. You think of me, and I think of you, no matter how I try to bury it. And then here we are.” He raises his hands in a hopeless gesture. “All my experience Dreaming, and I do not understand it.”

“Cole said we were tied,” she explains, more to herself than to him. “Our pain beginning and ending with each other’s.”

Solas nods slowly. “That… does explain some things.”

She looks to him. “So what now?”

He shrugs. “I suppose that depends on you.”

 _Alright then._ “In my dreams, I sometimes saw a wolf. Was that you?”

He shakes his head. “I have not appeared to you in that form.” His brow creases. “That I am aware of…”

_So those were just dreams, then._

It’s her turn to sigh as her focus shifts. “Solas, let me help you.”

“You know I can’t, vhenan.”

“But what if you’re wrong?” she insists. “What if there’s another way? One that doesn’t end in bloodshed? You’ve been wrong before. If I knew how you planned this, I might be able to find something you missed.”

“And if you found nothing, then you would have all the tools necessary to undo what must be done.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, vhenan.”

What was the point of telling her everything when he removed the Anchor? Why put her through this suffering is she was powerless to stop him?

Tears spring to her eyes, and she cannot look at him. “Why start anything between us when you knew how it would end?”

She’s surprised to hear him take a shuddering breath.

“I never intended to hurt you. You must understand that.”

He is quiet for so long she thinks he intends to leave it there and turns back to find him lost in thought. Eventually, his eyes catch hers, and he clears his throat.

“At first, you were a mortal who got in the way of my plans.” He gives a bitter laugh. “But I got to know you. And I… loved… I wanted…” A shadow of pain twists momentarily over his face and is gone. “It seemed the more I tried to walk away, the harder you pulled me back.”

“That’s not fair,” she tells him, tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

“I did not mean to imply it was your fault. I only…” He gives another shuddering breath.

She hates that sound, hates knowing he’s hurting, that he feels exactly as she feels, because it makes it even harder for her to blame him, to take out her anger and be done with it. Her pain wrapped up in his pain wrapped up in hers.

_Damn it, Cole._

“There was a time,” he says. “When I honestly believed we could endure, that somehow despite everything… I meant to tell you at Crestwood. I meant to tell you the whole truth, but then… I had to accept reality.”

Tears finally fall from her eyes. His explanation is of no comfort at all.

“I told you the fault was mine. I made a selfish mistake. Accept that as the truth.”

She wishes she could, that it was that simple. But it isn’t, because she knows he’s breaking no matter how well he hides it behind his wall of stoicism.

“I loved you,” she sobs.

He only stares at her, his features even more weighted.

He will not come to her. He will not comfort her. And she realizes that he can’t, because doing so could be the final straw that breaks everything open. And he cannot risk that.

She falls to her knees in the grass, sobbing into her hands.

When she awakes in tears in her bed, she rolls over and clutches at her pillow. Somehow, she thinks she smells him on it.


	8. Chapter 8

“Were you ever angry at Krem?” she asks Bull as they sit together at the Tavern sipping drinks. “For losing your eye?”

“Once or twice, at first. But only to myself. I knew it was my own dumb-ass fault.” He nurses his drink. “Are you angry with Solas? About the arm?”

She sighs. It’s not the arm that bothers her, not really. It’s the Anchor – the thing that had changed her life so explicitly, the reason people considered her the Herald of Andraste, how she came to be such an integral part of the Inquisition, the thing that had very nearly killed her in the end – it had been his all along. Somehow, he had loved her and left her and had never given the decency of telling her until he had an immediate exit route.

“I have so much to be mad at him for,” she admits.

“But not enough to hate him,” Bull supplies.

“You would think.” There were nights when she cursed his name, when she screamed and cried, but she never could hate him somehow. “It would be easier to hate him.”

“Harder to love him.”

She looks at him, but he merely goes back to his drink like he said nothing significant.

She rubs her stump out of habit. She was told it would help desensitize the limb. She hoped it would help with phantom pain, that it would stop her from forgetting the rest of her arm wasn’t there. Perhaps she’s just impatient, but she hasn’t noticed much change.

The look of it has changed, however. From a big swollen mess she couldn’t bare to look it, the sutures healed and what’s left of her arm is starting to take shape. The shape of _what_ exactly she isn’t sure, but with her daily care routine she’s noticed it looks less like some part of her was torn away and more like what is left behind has begun to… settle.

She does not think of Solas when she looks at her arm. She thinks of how neatly the sutures were placed, how she’s seen Dalish with ugly jagged scars, how she has one thing to thank Val Royeaux for. And she thinks of how her life has irrecoverably changed once more.

“Did I ever tell you I was left handed before the Conclave?”

Bull’s eyebrows shoot upward. “No, you did not.”

She nods. Her hand became alien to her the moment the Anchor joined it. She was relieved when Solas took it away. In her mind, he saved her. Even though others might say she should blame him for everything, and even though they may be right, she doesn’t.

“It’s not Solas that hurts,” she tells Bull. “It’s just… switching hands is one thing. Losing half your arm is something else.”

“Have you thought about a prosthetic?”

She sits up straighter. “You mean… one of those wooden things that you fiddle with to lock the fingers in place?”

Bull gives a laugh. “Boss, I’m sure your arcanist can do better than that.”

 

* * *

 

She didn’t even know Dagna was still with the Inquisition.

“Are we, er, still paying you?” Josephine would scold her for the lack of tact, but with the stress on the Inquisition’s budget, it’s a question she can’t help but ask.

“Oh, goodness, no!” says Dagna with a giggle. “Can you imagine? Keeping my salary after disbanding?” She chuckles.

“But then…” says Inan. “Why are you–?”

“I offered to work for free!” she says with a gleeful squeal. “You _were_ paying me quite a lot, so I can manage on my own for a while. And I have been dying for you to come down here!”

Dagna hurries to a workbench scattered with parchment. When Inan draws closer, she sees the papers contain various prosthetic designs. Some are mechanically elaborate with many churning mechanisms. Others are intricate labyrinths of lyrium and runes. A few are designed as weapon attachments for a sword, staff, or crossbow. One has a note of “Be more Dalish!” and contains a wooden design so beautifully woven, it would make Master Loren weep, though she has no idea how or if it would actually function.

“Dagna,” she says. “These are…”

“ _Wonderful_?” she supplies.

More like overwhelming. She’d only considered the idea of a prosthetic a few minutes ago. She hadn’t given any thought at all to how she might like one to look – didn’t realize she had an option until now. But these designs in her hands are… far too much.

“Oooh!” Dagna coos, turning on The Iron Bull. “I hadn’t considered before! We could make you a prosthetic eye!”

Bull shakes his head. “I-I don’t think so–”

“With a little magic,” Dagna continues. “You might be able to see again, even if nothing but shapes or shadows.”

“You want to experiment with magic,” Bull says, slowly backing away. “Inside. My. Head?”

“Just think of the–!”

“No. No, thank you. I’m good. _How are you doing over there, Boss?_ ” He raises is voice, trying to draw the attention back to her.

She has no idea what to do with the drawings in her hands, so she sits.

Dagna rushes over to her. “Those are only a few of my ideas. The ones I think I could get to work, anyway. I’m sure with your input we could come up with something–”

“Simpler?”

Dagna deflates, and then is all smiles and bubbles again. “Simpler. Sure. Right, yes. I can do that.” She takes the designs from Inan’s hands and returns to the workbench, chattering to herself.

Bull places a hand on Inan’s shoulder. “You alright, Boss?”

“I feel nauseous.”

“I know the feeling.”

She places her hand on top of his. She doesn’t imagine Dagna will be experimenting with a prosthetic eye any time soon.

She saw a member of another Dalish clan with a prosthetic arm once. It was wooden with leather straps. The fingers were jointed so with their free hand, the elf could manipulate them into a specific position for holding or grasping something like a weapon or a drinking mug. She wasn’t sure she wanted a prosthetic like that. However useful it might be, it felt… clunky and inefficient. She thought she’d rather not have an arm than be reminded everyday of what having a real arm used to be like through the function of such a poor replica.

But looking at Dagna’s designs… They seem so much more than what an arm is supposed to be. And she doesn’t think she wants that either.

When she thinks of extensions of herself, she thinks of her staff, carved from a special tree with few other adornments. She thinks of her spirit blade, simple in design and efficient in its use. Over time, it had become as much a part of her as her staff. And only now does she realize she no longer has an extra hand to wield it.

“What about my spirit blade?”

Dagna doesn’t look up from her scribbling. “What about it?”

“Could you make an attachment that–” She stops, realizing she’s not thinking far enough. “C-could we use that to…?”

Dagna straightens. “You… want to make an arm… out of…?” She blinks a couple times. “That could work! Although… it would be much more difficult.”

“How so?” Inan asks.

“A blade is simple,” she says. “It’s sharp. It’s pointed. It’s straight. But a hand is… Well, a hand is so much more!” She holds up her own hand to demonstrate. “It’s not a single shape but made up of many. And a hand can be soft as well as hard. A hand can greet, pray, shake, slap, pinch. And a hand has to move! Fingers wiggle, form a fist, make a whistle, grasp a staff…”

Dagna holds up her designs. “All of the movement is in here. I built them that way. Mechanisms and joints tied to other joints. Move one and you move others. Of course, with any prosthetic you’ll have to learn how to use it, but to form a hand and all its functions out of pure will…”

And why not? She learned how to command the Fade, didn’t she?

“Let’s try it.”

 

* * *

 

“Absolutely not. The last time we traveled, you nearly died.”

“The season has set. And my arm is nearly healed now.”

Cassandra sighs and lowers the sword she’s been practicing with. “Dagna has plenty of designs she can make here. Why would you drag yourself all the way to the Fallow Mire for some bog-ridden spirit essence when a perfectly acceptable prosthetic could be made without the stink and mess?”

“Have you _seen_ Dagna’s designs?”

Cassandra looks away. “I’m sure she can be reasoned with after a fashion.”

“Cassandra, _please_.”

“ _Why?_ ” she insists, gesturing with her sword. “Why go out there and risk your life again? Why is this so important to you?”

“I need to know that I’m capable,” she tells her.

“We can train right here, and I can tell you if you’re capable.”

“It’s not the same.”

“It will keep you _alive_.”

Inan gives a groan of frustration and turns away. She takes a step before forcing herself to turn back and search for the right words.

Cassandra waits patiently.

“There’s so much of this I didn’t have a choice in,” she says. “I didn’t choose the Anchor. I didn’t want the power it allowed me to wield. You know I didn’t want the Inquisition, and I didn’t…”

She rolls her lips, struggling again. “I’ve lost so much of myself. My home, my clan, my culture…” She raises what’s left of her arm, not needing to articulate. “If I can have this one thing, however seemingly insignificant it might seem… It’s one more choice that I get to make. It’s one less thing that I have to lose.”

Cassandra groans and tilts back her head as though praying for patience. When she brings her head forward, she looks Inan in the eyes.

“We train,” she says. “And we go when I say you’re ready to go.”

Inan smiles, relief rolling off her shoulders.

Cassandra holds up a finger. “We train when I say, how I say, and we stop when I say it’s time to stop. And you will not complain.”

Inan nods enthusiastically.

“Don’t get too excited.” She hefts a practice sword in her free hand and tosses it.

Inan fumbles and barely catches it.

“We start now.”

 

* * *

 

Training is exhausting, mentally as well as physically. There is so much she thought she knew that she has to relearn to do differently. It frustrates her that the simplest things – things that had seemed thoughtless and natural, like keeping balance – trip her up. More often, she feels like one of Cullen’s awkward and clumsy new recruits than the battle seasoned Inquisitor.

She never wants to finish when Cassandra brings their training sessions to an end. But she promised not to complain. Instead she bites her tongue and throws herself into research or finds a quiet corridor to sob her frustrations into her arms or takes her dagger out on a piece of wood she whittles into messy submission.

After her first week, Cassandra rewards her progress with turnovers, apple this time.

Dagna continues working on her designs and brings them to Inan for regular input just in case the spirit prosthetic doesn’t work. She tries not to be dismissive even while she hopes she’ll never have to use them.

She doesn’t dream on the nights following training. She seems to soak into her bed covers, safe and cushioned, and receives nothing but deep well-earn rest.

When Cassandra calls for a day off, she remains jittery the rest of the evening. She can’t get through a paragraph of her reading or stay in her chair for ten minutes without needing to stand and pace. Her thoughts are too full of Solas, if she’ll see him again, and what she’ll say if she does.

Part her wants to beg him, another to slap him, yet another to pull him toward her and kiss him. She is too many parts, too many frustrations.

She has no idea what she’ll say to him.

When she finally does dream, it takes her several moments to realize where she is. First, she’s thrown off from having been away. She forgot how consciousness in the Fade felt. And second, the smooth cobbled streets and golden towers spiraling impossibly into the sky are unlike anything she has ever seen.

When she realizes she’s in a dream, she turns and finds hundreds of elves, many with painted faces. They’re dressed in long flowing silks or other thin fabrics held onto their bodies by loosely tied cords. Many have elaborate piercings or bobbles in their hair.

She soon spots the more impoverished – those with the fewest adornments and the roughest fabrics. All with tattooed faces. Many keep their gaze down and avoid eye contact from those whose faces are plain.

They remind her of the elven servants of Orlais, and she shudders.

She doesn’t realize this is Solas’ dream until she spots him in the crowd. He’s hard to miss, dressed in the same clothes he wore with the Inquisition. She doesn’t know if he appears this way for his own comfort or hers.

There are merchants near the end of the street. Solas steps up to a tanned woman with a bright smile and Mythal’s vallaslin blue on her face. He exchanges coin for a cloth bag. His fingers catch hers as she pulls away, and he presses a kiss into the back of her hand.

For a moment, she thinks she sees a flash of a younger Solas, the weariness of time lifted from his face. His smile widened by the lightheartedness of youth. And among a few facial adornments, there is color there too, or paint, of a pattern that is gone too quickly for her to identify.

And then he is her Solas once again, and she remembers just how little she knows about him.

He leaves the woman and continues down the street.

She doesn’t know if the city’s towers and elves begin to vanish or if her vision simply focuses on him.

He stops.

One of them takes a deep breath.

She falls to her knees, clasping her hands over her ears and clamping her eyes shut as pain rips through the air around her. Burning. Screaming. Someone is crying. Someone is pleading. The cries echo around her. The sobbing burns her own lungs. Flames heat her skin.

She falls face first into fresh grass.

She picks herself up, whirling around to face an attacker.

But there is no one. Just a field, and a tree, and Solas standing and staring over a specific unmarked spot.

She approaches him as silently as she can, uncertain if he even knows she’s here.

He stares into the grass and doesn’t move. His hands hang half clenched at his sides.

She watches him and the grass and tries to make sense of how they got from the city to here and the terrifying space in between.

She realizes there was a grave here, one time has completely erased but Solas cannot forget.

“Who was she?”

He doesn’t jump or startle. He does not pull his eyes from the grave. “She was the first. The first to make me question our society.”

Her next words are quiet. She isn’t certain she has the right to ask them. “Did you love her?”

His lips twitch as though trying to smile. “I did not have the opportunity.”

She stands with him in silence until she begins to wonder just how long they’ve been here.

Solas never moves a muscle.

_What is time to him anyway?_

But it’s not impatience from her short-lived life. It’s the lines in his face. It’s his half-clenched hands. It’s his unfaltering gaze. And the curve of his lips that seem sad, even at rest.

She wants to take him away from all this, and without thinking she slips her hand into his.

His eyes jump to hers, and she ignores the way her heart breaks to see the panic in his eyes.

“Come on.”

She thinks of one of her favorite places, the best for sorting through complicated emotions or exhausting problems.

The Fade reshapes itself around them until they are met with a stream in a lush forest. An outcrop sits behind the stream with a giant rock at its base, large enough to climb on top of and lay down. Inan and her best friend from her clan would lay on that rock and talk for hours.

She pulls Solas toward the outcropping and lets him go as she climbs. At the top, she looks down to find him still at the bottom massaging his palm.

“Are you going to come up?” she asks. “Or avoid me all evening?”

“Forgive me, vhenan. I was…”

She shakes her head, telling herself she isn’t hurt by his distance. “Well, I touched your hand, and you didn’t jump me, so I think you’re safe.”

She doesn’t wait for a response and takes her position on the rock, on her back with her arms behind her head. She tries to relax and wishes she didn’t feel like crying.

She’s surprised when she hears Solas climbing up to meet her. He does not lay with her but sits on the edge of the rock, his legs dangling over.

_Well, that’s something._

They sit in silence until Solas breaks it. “Beautiful place.”

“Thanks,” she says, but she isn’t interested in exchanging pleasantries.

He chuckles and finally turns to her. “I know you have more questions, vhenan. So ask.”

She scoffs. “You mean, you’ll actually answer them?”

He shrugs. “We are here. If you wish to fill the silence… I will answer what I can.”

She thinks of the elves in his dream with the tattooed faces. “Are the elves of this world still so foreign to you?”

He sighs but does not answer.

“I know you have trouble identifying with us, but… we’re the descendants of your people.”

He nods. “I have thought of that.”

“You would still cast us off so easily?”

He shakes his head. “You know it’s not like that. Not anymore.”

She pulls herself up to sit. “Tell me.”

He takes a breath. “I told you once I could see no way to help the elves. Perhaps, at the end of all this… they’ll have more than they do now.”

“Killing them is not the way to help them.”

“You misunderstand. I only mean, there may be a bright side for those who survive.”

_Those who survive?_

“What happens when the veil comes down?” she asks.

He sighs and turns to watch the flow of the stream. “Mages who fear their talent or have trouble controlling it will find their powers boosted by the stronger connection to the Fade. People who have never had magic before will find themselves with it. These changes will be swift and sudden. Panic and chaos will ensue. And added to the turmoil will be the presence of spirits and demons.”

“The world will burn,” she says, remembering his words in front of the eluvian.

“Just as it did when the Veil first formed. And just as before, the world will find its footing. Life will continue.”

“But countless people will die,” she tells him. “You may not have known the consequences when the Veil went up, but you know them now.”

He closes his eyes. “I see no other way.”

“No other way to what?”

He pushes himself off from the rock and climbs down. He walks to the stream and paces.

She follows after him.

“Raising the Veil was a mistake,” he says.

“And you want to undo that mistake. I understand, Solas. But surely all these lives… I know you don't want this.”

He gives her no response, but his gaze doesn't break from hers. 

She remembers that look from nearly two years ago, and she gives him the same response. “There's more, isn't there?”

“Yes,” he says.

“But you can't tell me.”

“No.”

She sighs. She has a thousand more questions, and a thousand more answers he cannot give.

“Fine.” She turns from him and walks to the edge of the stream where she tugs off her shoes. She resists the urge to throw one of them at him.

She steps into the stream, closing her eyes as the water washes over her bare feet. She lets out a long breath. Maybe these encounters with him don't have to be filled with conflict and frustration.

She sits on the bank, her feet still in the water, and pats the grass next to her. “Sit with me?”

He makes a movement forward before stopping himself.

“Please?”

He stays where he is.

She turns away from him, trying not to act annoyed. She isn't sure she succeeds, and moments later she hears the soft crunch of grass.

Solas steps next to her and into the stream. The eleven wraps around his ankles disappear as the water surrounds them, and she remembers she's in the Fade. She probably didn't need to remove her shoes.

Did she hear or only imagine the grass crunching?

He sits. His hand lays close to hers in the grass, but she does not grab it.

“I can see why you choose this place,” he says. “It's quite peaceful.” He turns to her and smiles. “And beautiful.”

She turns away, not wanting him to see the heat in her cheeks.

He is still a sweet talker, even when he's trying not to be.


	9. Chapter 9

“I… want to apologize,” Cullen says when she meets him to send off another group of troops. “What I said was unworthy. And I’m sorry.”

She takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I know you’re all worried about me. And I know none of you approve of… how I may still feel, but… what I said was unworthy too. I’m sorry as well.”

“I told you once, you could count on me should you have need.”

She nods.

“I meant that. I still do. Even if…” He rubs that back of his head. “Even if I may not like whatever it is you’re planning, should you have need of me, I will be there.”

She doesn’t have the words to truly express how much that means to her, to know her friends will stand with her no matter what comes, no matter what she decides in regards to Solas. “Thank you, Cullen.”

He smiles and holds out his arm.

She takes it.

“How many more of these do you think we’ll have to do?” she moans when she catches view of the soldiers.

He chuckles. “I think it’s best I don’t answer that.”

 

* * *

 

She’s excited when Cassandra announces they have finished practicing with swords. She’s eager to have her staff back in her hands. But once she raises it to fight, she realizes exactly why Cassandra started with swords first. 

A sword is balanced. It’s meant to be carried with one hand. Her staff, alternatively…

Is _heavy_.

She never noticed it before, but now the whole weight of it has to be carried with one arm. Practicing with the sword strengthened her, but it isn’t enough and her arm is aching far before Cassandra usually calls their sessions to an end.

Cassandra gives her permission to work on strength training outside of their practices, so that’s something. But she still has to resist the urge throw her staff against the castle walls and never return it.

_I can’t even cast magic!_

Not properly, anyway. All the times she’s twirled her staff – quick-turned it left and right or spun it around to attack an enemy behind her – she’ll have it relearn it all! _If_ it can even be done one-hand.

She’s such a ragging ball of frustration, hot tears roll down her face as she leaves the practice area and searches for a safe place to vent her anger.

She heads for the barn, usually empty since Thom left, and nearly runs straight into Anise.

“My, Lady! Are you–?”

Inan turns away, trying to hide her face. But seeing the servant woman only makes her frustration worse. It boils over, and she sobs into in crook of her elbow.

Anise coaxes her toward the back of the barn and onto a hay bail where they sit. She lays a hand on her back. “Can I bring you anything, My Lady?”

Inan shakes her head. “I just want to be left alone.”

To her surprise, Anise leaves her. After she cries to her heart’s content, she looks up from her drenched arm sleeve to find the young woman standing in front of her with a mug of something steaming in her hands.

Anise holds it out, and she takes it. The drink is hot and creamy, the same Iron Bull gave her back in Val Royeaux. “How… did you…?”

Anise stares at the ground. “A good servant must anticipate her mistress’ needs.”

Inan pats the hay next to her, and the woman sits.

“I haven’t been very kind to you.”

“You have been quite gracious, My Lady.”

Inan shakes her head. “Only because you have to say that.”

Anise does not argue, and Inan sips her drink. It helps.

“What do you do all day while I’m avoiding you?”

“The Lady Montilyet has no shortage of tasks,” she explains. “I have organized the books in the library to be returned, run missives, fetched other servants or workers. With the Inquisition’s horses returned, I was asked to survey the stables and barn for what remained and what work or cleaning needed to be done.”

Inan tries to imagine herself in Anise’s shoes: a servant sent away from her home, ostracized by the woman she’s meant to serve, and set menial tasks. “Is that… satisfying for you?”

“My Lady?”

“Are you bored here?”

Anise hesitates. “I am kept busy.”

Inan sighs. “What I mean is, do you wish you could do something different? Something _more_ than servant work?”

“A servant is not supposed to speak of such things.”

“But I’m asking.”

Anise twiddles her fingers. “I wish…”

“You can tell me,” Inan says. “I won’t chastise you.”

“I suppose… if I could do anything…” She falls silent.

Inan sips her drink until it is empty. She fidgets with the mug in her lap, uncertain if Anise ever intends to finish or if she should take her leave.

“I wish I could do something to help our people.”

It’s not the response Inan expected, but it hits home. “Me too.”

She looks down at her mug, forgetting it is empty.

“Would you like another, My Lady?”

“Yes – I mean, no!”

But Anise snatches up the mug and runs off toward the tavern before she can stop her.

Inan sighs again.

 

* * *

 

Josephine finds her studying in the rotundra. She escorts a tall, gangly middle aged man with a tired face and spectacles. The bangs of his thin chestnut hair fall into his eyes and remind her of Cole. 

“Inquisitor Lavellan, allow me I introduce you to Tolbert LeClaire, our translator.”

Inan practically leaps from her chair. She rushes forward to shake the man’s hand with enthusiasm. “I can’t begin to say what a pleasure it is to meet you.”

“It is my honor,” he says and bows to her.

“You… don’t have an Oleasian accent.”

LeClaire shrugs. “I have lived my entire life in Orlais but somehow kept the Fereldan accent of my parents.”

Josephine hands him the tome in question, and he runs his fingers over the worn leather cover lovingly. “I have wanted to hold a copy of this since…” He flips over the cover and opening pages with the utmost care, stopping at a full page of text.

“How astonishing,” he says. “It really does appear to be an unusual mix of Elvish and Tevene. Could the two languages actually share a link with one another?” He continues examining the pages, muttering to himself.

“Will you be able to translate it?” Inan asks.

LeClaire nods his head slowly. “It will take considerable work, but yes, I do believe it can be done. Mostly, if not entirely.”

Inan sighs in relief and gestures around the rotunda and at the library above. “Please, whatever you need – Skyhold is at your disposal.”

LeClaire takes up Dorian’s old spot in the library. And while Inan tries to continue her studies, she can’t help but make her way up the staircase to peer at the translator. Eventually, he chuckles and invites her to observe his work.

She’s surprised at how extremely slow going the translation is. LeClaire explains the need to first determine the roots of the words – small parts that when put together make up a single word’s larger meaning. But the unusual nature of the book’s writing means LeClaire has to work from the knowledge of two different languages. One root might mean one thing in Elvish or another in Tevene. Understanding a sentence as a whole can help with deciphering individual words or roots but is made even more complicated when one doesn’t understand the sentence to begin with.

The whole endeavor sounds nearly impossible to Inan. “Have you worked on many translations?”

“Oh, yes,” he says with a nod, never looking up from the book. “Though none professionally. Old languages have always been a hobby of mine. Not much market for them in Orlais or elsewhere unfortunately, especially when it comes to Elvish or Tevene. I’m rather thrilled to be getting paid, if I may say so. A meager sum but far more than anyone could expect in this field of work.”

She’s not sure whether to feel encouraged or disheartened. “Well, let me know if you need anything.”

“Actually,” he says, finally looking up at her from his chair. “Your upbringing may lend you insight I lack. If I could run a few questionable words by you?”

She soon finds herself spending more and more time in the library. Despite the frustratingly slow pace, she feels like her efforts are spent uncovering something. Somewhere in those pages are secrets her people lost, Elvish words or phrases that were long forgotten. The opportunity to rediscover them fills her with new purpose.

Returning to her notes on Solas, in contrast, feels pointless. She’s no closer to uncovering anything about his plans or methods than she was when she started. And she can’t but wonder if, like when she searched for him after he disappeared, there is simply nothing to find.

 

* * *

 

“What would you do?” Inan asks Anise upon returning to her chambers. “If you could do anything to help our people?”

“I would…” Anise looks at the floor as she thinks. “I would give Halamshiral back to us.”

Inan sighs. The thought had occurred to her numerous times.

“My Lady,” Anise says, not raising her gaze. “If I may be so bold… why didn’t you?”

Inan shakes her head. “It’s not that simple. I know it may seem like I have ultimate power, but I don’t. Orlais would never agree to it, even when I had leverage to bargain with. If I pressed it, we’d have another war to wage inside of what we were already fighting. Even if by some miracle I managed it, the humans would have never let us keep it.”

Anise fidgets with a twist of her foot. “They say the Marquis only came to power and stays there through your efforts.”

Inan nods. “That’s true.”

“They say you let the Empress die.”

Her whole body turns to ice. She stares at Anise who remains looking at the ground, as still as though she were listening for a pin to drop.

“Who told you that?”

Anise shakes her head. “They are only rumors. Forgive me, My Lady.” She steps to Inan’s bed and fusses with the bedcovers.

“Who else has heard these rumors?”

“No one. Everyone. I cannot say, My Lady.” She gives the pillows a final fluff and practically runs for the door and closes it behind her.

Inan deflates. She throws herself face-up onto the bed and stares up at the ceiling.

She was enraged at the Winter Palace when it was suggested _not_ to save Celene. Wasn’t that the whole point in coming? But Leliana’s insistence that it was only Orlais they needed to stop from falling rang in her mind long after the conversation.

She’d spent the whole night ignoring glances and the calls of “rabbit.” At every turn, she was reminded the humans of the court cared nothing for her. Keeper Deshanna had always taught that the only way for peace was to cooperate with the humans. And she had followed that teaching.

But her time with the Inquisition taught her something else; that the humans only wanted her people’s obedience. So long as the elves acted and presented themselves the way the shems wanted, no trouble would come their way. The humans didn’t care for her people’s well being and they never would.

That fact was never more evident to her while the humans complained about the lack of service and overlooked the blood stains on the tile. She has no doubt none of them mourned the elves who lost their lives.

But Briala threw herself into the fray to protect her people. Inan had beaten her to it, but suddenly she couldn’t think of a single reason to save Celene.

She rolls over and punches her pillow.

The same ignorance existed within the Inquisition. Cassandra, Josephine, Cullen… she was the Inquisitor, and she was their friend. But Maker forbid she brought up the gods her people worshiped or the land that was stolen from them. She loved her friends, but there were times when she felt like she was only a convenience – only the Inquisitor and the Herald of Andraste (despite her insistence she was _not_ ). She felt like they forgot most of the time she was elven and preferred it stayed that way.

She turns back to look at the ceiling and sighs deeply.

Celene’s death still haunts her. And she doesn’t know if it does so because she regrets the decision or because she doesn’t and knows she should.

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t dream of Solas that night or the next. She hasn’t been able to establish a pattern to when their dreams collide. Perhaps some nights her thoughts are too preoccupied to lead her to him. Perhaps her command of the Fade still lacks focus. Perhaps Solas’ thoughts drift some nights as well or he is too exhausted. Or maybe he has found a way to block her at least somewhat successfully. 

She tells herself he would warn her before he ever blocked her out completely. He would not vanish on her without a word.

She tries to forget he has done so before.

“Is something troubling you?” he asks when she finally sees him again.

She does not share her thoughts. “I’m… getting a prosthetic.” She doesn’t miss how his eyes flit over the lower half of her left arm that shouldn’t be there but is. “We’re collecting spirit essence for an attempt, and I was wondering if it would be harmful.”

“We discussed this,” he tells her. “Before you made your Spirit Blade.”

“I know. I just didn’t know if it would be different if… if you succeed in bringing down the Veil.”

He considers for a moment. “When destroyed in the Fade, a spirit’s essence has the potential to birth something similar or new. In the waking world, there simply isn’t enough energy to tease the essence into something else. Instead, it fades into what I can only assume is non existence.”

“So… by collecting it… ”

"You are giving the spirit purpose again, something it cannot otherwise hope for without the pretense of the Fade. You are doing a good thing, vhenan.”

It’s a relief to hear, even if it wasn’t what was chiefly bothering her. “I wanted to be sure.”

He smiles. “It matters that you thought to ask.”

She lays down next to where he sits by the stream that has become their meeting place and looks up at the sky. She remembers the night he left, after she had just closed the Breach. She looked up as her friends gathered to see the hole in the sky finally sealed and realized Solas had vanished.

It was supposed to be a triumphant moment, but any joy or pride she might have felt at her accomplishments disappeared with him and months dragged by much the same.

“Something else is troubling you,” Solas observes.

She sighs. “Am I going to come here one night and find you’ve disappeared? Are you still trying to put a stop to this?”

His silence is damning, and she turns away, trying to hide the pain he’s put her through.

“Ir abelas, vhenan.”

“Damn your sorrys!” She sits up, anger flooding her. “Tell me why!”

He purses his lips and averts his gaze. “It would be easier if–”

“It’s _not_ easier!” she yells at him. “It’s not easier not knowing where you are or what you’re doing or if you’re even alive!” She slaps her hand against the ground. “You disappeared without a word to _anyone_ who cared about you! I was so afraid you’d gotten yourself mixed up in something terrible.”

Tears come to her eyes and she turns from him. She does not want to look on his stony expression, his well-practiced resolve, while she’s breaking inside. “I searched for you for so long, after everyone told me it was pointless, that you didn’t want to be found.” Tears roll down her cheeks. “Even when I finally gave up, I never stopped wondering – worrying if you were lying in a ditch somewhere. Alone.”

“Was learning the truth easier?” he asks.

_No._

The word comes to her simply and honestly. The truth was terrible.

She dries her eyes. “I would rather know the truth than relive all those days I spent unable to sleep or function because my imagination wouldn’t stop running.” She turns to him. “Solas, give me the truth. Give me the truth every single time.”

He stares at her and shakes his head. He stands and walks further down stream where he stops to watch the running water. Softly, he says, “It is easier for me.”

“I don’t understand.”

He gestures toward her.

It takes her a minute. “You’re saying... I distract you?”

Just as softly, he says, “You tempt me.”

“What?”

He closes his eyes like he’s praying for strength.

When he does not explain or move at all, she goes to him. She reaches for him, nearly laying a hand on his back, but she catches herself. “Solas… Give me the truth.”

He sighs, long and hard. It’s a moment or two before he speaks. “I was going to tell you at Crestwood. I was going to tell you everything. About who I was, about my part in Corypheus’ plot, about my plans for the Veil… I meant to tell you all of it. And at the last second I… told you about the Vallaslin instead.”

She gasps. She had gone over those moments a thousand times in her head and never had she suspected he brought her to the waterfall for another purpose.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because.” He turns to her and takes her hands, holding them the way he had that night. His hands tremble in hers and she gives them a squeeze.

“I would have left it,” he admits. “I would have dropped it all at your feet. Every terrible piece of my past would have ended at that waterfall if you’d asked.” His hands tremble more, and she holds them tighter. “But I realized… if I did… if I…”

She stares into his face, into the pain warring behind his eyes. She remembers the words the he told her.

_In another world…_

“You couldn’t leave it,” she finishes for him. “Not really. Not even if you tried.”

“Not even for you.” His eyes are shinning.

“I don’t understand,” she tells him. “How do I tempt you?”

He gives a weak smile. “You’ve always made me believe I could do better, that I could give you the best parts of me.”

And that meant giving up the worst parts; giving up Fen’Harel. Every moment he spent with her led him further into wanting to let go of something he couldn’t.

But she loved Fen’Harel too. “Have I ever asked you to leave it?”

He blinks. And his eyes grow wide.

“I want the Veil to come down,” she tells him, and this time it’s she who shakes because it’s the first time she’s admitted it to herself. “I want magic restored. I want the elves to reclaim what they’ve lost. And if you feel called to lead that fight, how could I ever ask you not to?”

May her friends and clan forgive how much she admires what he’s trying to accomplish. The cost is terrible, but the goal… the goal is everything she’s ever wanted for her people. She’d give her life to restore what they’d lost, and she cannot condemn him for wanting the same.

“Yes, I want you to do better.” She admits. “I want you to find another way. But that doesn’t mean I want you to give up part of yourself.”

He shakes his head. “You do not know the whole of it.”

“I don’t need to know the whole of it.”

He averts his gaze. “You would not say that if you knew.”

She touches his cheek and brings his attention back to her. Her voice shakes. “I love Fen’Harel. I love everything that you’ve fought for and stood for. I love all the times you’ve tried to help. All of your best intentions. I know you don’t always succeed, but I never want you to stop trying to do what you feel is the right thing.”

She expects him to protest, but he says nothing. He continues to look on her until a single tear falls from his eyes. She doesn’t know if it means he’s happy or sad.

He wipes the tear away. “Vhenan, I…” He does not finished.

“I love you,” she says and her whole body seems to tremble with the truth of it. “I love every part of you.”

He closes the gap between them and slides his arm around her. She thinks he might kiss her or she might kiss him, but they both hesitate. The ground they’ve made is still too fragile.

Instead, he kiss her forehead and breathes, “Ar lath ma, vhenan” into her hair.

She holds him and wishes she could somehow keep him here, that she would never have to let go of him ever again.

But they do part. They lay together by the stream and stare up at the sky. It’s not blue like the waking world but a pastel canvas of pinks and oranges and gold. Like a sunset that never ends.

Solas’ hand sits firmly in hers, and she doesn’t remember when he put it there.

“You were right, vhenan,” he says. “I should have trusted you. But I still think you were better off without me.”

“Maybe I was.” She nearly laughs because of course her life would have been simpler if they had never gotten involved. “But I choose to be here.”

He scoffs. “I still cannot fathom why.” He turns to her and caresses her cheek with the back of his hand. His eyes shine again. “This won’t be easy. You know that.”

She places her hand over his. She isn’t interested in discussing how much the future is going to hurt. “Will you be here when I come looking for you?”

He hesitates, and she fears their entire conversation has been for naught.

But answer he settles on is, “Yes.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had hoped to put this out as a day-after Christmas present. That didn’t happen. But I wish you all a happy Holiday, whatever you celebrate. I hope you’ve had the chance to be surrounded by loved ones. It’s meant a lot to me to see your comments as the chapters go by. I didn’t expect many to be interested in Inan’s journey. I’m touched that you are all here for this emotional roller coaster. Thank you for your kind words. They are best gifts an author can receive. I hope this story continues to be everything you came for.

“I’d feel better if we had another person,” Cassandra says. “Perhaps one of Charter’s people.”

Inan shakes her head. “Charter’s already stretched thin.” The spy network of the Inquisition is still in operation but greatly depleted. It’s not her reason for declining, though.

Cassandra and The Iron Bull _kn_ _o_ _w_ her. They know when to put her in her place and when to leave her to let off steam. She doesn’t want a random person getting in the way as they travel to the Fallow Mire, even if her party won’t contain the usual four.

“I will go,” says a quiet voice.

Inan snaps her head around to find Anise standing at the edge of the practice area. She has no idea how long she’s been standing there.

“No,” says Inan at the same time Cassandra says, “Absolutely not.”

Anise raises her voice to a moderate level but keeps her eyes on the ground. “My orders were to not leave the Lady Inquisitor out of my sight.”

“Be that as it may,” Cassandra tells her. “It is too dangerous. And having someone inexperienced puts the rest of us at risk looking after you. I am sorry, but I cannot allow it.”

Anise mumbles something.

“What?” Cassandra asks.

She takes a breath, straightening her back and lifting her gaze to Cassandra’s knees. “I can use a dagger.”

Cassandra studies her. “One or two?”

“You’re not seriously–!” Inan protests.

Cassandra shoots her a look.

Inan shakes her head and steps off to the side as Cassandra leads Anise toward the practice dummies.

Cassandra gives the servant woman too large daggers, and they could not look more foreign in her hands than if Dagna had handed her two of her runes. Perhaps even more out of place is when Anise lifts her chin to look fully at the target.

“Can you believe this?” Inan asks Bull as he comes over to watch.

He says nothing, just folds his arms to watch.

Cassandra instructs Anise to attack the practice dummy. She strikes without flare or grace. Her movements are wooden, but she hits the dummy in all the vital places. It’s clear she’s had training.

“Let’s try a real target.” Cassandra steps up to meet her.

At first it’s almost comical, watching Cassandra parry every awkward strike. But she eggs Anise on.

“Again!” she shouts. And each time, Anise’s blows become a little faster and a little stronger.

Cassandra steps around Anise the way a real opponent would. She strikes with her sword, and Anise blocks.

“Again!”

Soon the fight begins to seem more balanced. Anise’s swings remind Inan of a mix of Sera’s wild ferocity, Cole’s cold calculations, and a sort of stunted grace that’s entirely her own. The meekness dies from her eyes and there is something unsettling in her now-unfaltering gaze.

For a moment, she is strong and confident – a different person.

Anise’s dagger slices through Cassandra’s leather. The more experienced fighter steps back, clutching her arm.

Anise drops to her knees, the daggers falling from her hands. “Forgive me, Lady Pentagast!” She bows her head, lowering it nearly to the ground.

Inan cannot reconcile the woman on her knees with the one she saw – for only any instant – with bright, wild eyes.

Cassandra turns over her hand to look at the cut; pink and raw but not bleeding. She considers Anise, still bowed before her. She must have seen the flash of something else inside the woman too, because she says;

“I hope you won’t be apologizing to the demons when you slay them.”

 

* * *

 

Inan does not know how to feel. Part of her can’t believe Cassandra would ever agree to bring Anise along. The other part can’t believe Anise capable of proving herself proficient enough to _be_ brought along.

“What do you make of her?” she asks Bull at his usual spot back at the tavern.

He shrugs. “She’s had training. We knew that.”

“But did you _see_ her?”

“I was standing right beside you, Boss.”

“Yes, I know, but – how could she possibly–? I mean, she shouldn’t have been capable–” Her words are jumble, but Bull seems able to understand them well enough.

He shrugs. “She’s had training, _good_ training. But maybe she hasn’t had reason to use it, and that’s why it took her a while to warm up. Or maybe she’s been a servant for too long. We both know elves aren’t treated well in Orlais. The timid ones who act submissive probably get by better. She might not know how to turn that off.”

They are simple excuses, and they aren’t enough to ease her conflicted mind. “You didn’t see her turn into a completely different person?”

“Nope.”

She studies him. He sits casually leaning forward in his chair. His pose is relaxed, his gaze doesn’t waiver. There is nothing suspect in his mannerisms. That should comfort her, but it just makes her trust him less.

“You’re not telling me something.”

He shakes his head. “Everything’s fine, Boss. Trust me.”

She stares at him.

“Boss, leave it alone. _Please_.”

She has half a mind to argue. But his look and his plea are so earnest that she begrudgingly nods her head. That doesn’t stop her from gazing around the tavern to see if Anise is perhaps somewhere near by.

Bull curses under his breath. “You’re going to look at her differently now every time you see her, aren’t you?”

She turns back to him.

He shakes his head and mutters to himself. “You never could keep a straight face in Wicked Grace.” He sighs and leans in closer so he can keep his voice low. “Do you really think Briala would send an ordinary servant to watch over and protect you?”

Inan blinks and leans back. The full embodiment of Anise’s services had only seemed to be fluffing her pillows and delivering meals. Now she’s supposed to protect her? Given what she saw in the practice field, that made sense, but, “I thought…”

Bull nods. “You were supposed to. As is everyone else.”

“You didn’t think I should _know_?”

Bull shakes his head. “With the possibility of other spies in the Inquisition, everyone needs to believe she is who she seems to be, including you.”

“More secrets!” she yells at him. “More lies!”

Heads turn at her outburst, and she remembers the delicate nature of their conversation. She collects herself but must seem crushed because Bull’s gaze falters from hers and he stares at his hands as he turns them over.

“I thought… You’d rather not know she watches you every second of the day.”

She’s incredulous. “I spend most of the day _avoiding_ her!” She cases another quick glance around the tavern. “And she’s not here now.”

Bull shakes his head and points at the floor above him.

She doesn’t believe him, but she takes the stairs and finds Anise busying herself in Sera’s old room that’s since been converted to storage.

“Oh, My Lady!” Anise fumbles with a crate in her arms. “Did you need anything?”

This woman staring at the floor in front of her couldn’t possibly be a master class spy. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Bull was messing with her.

“No,” she says. “Carry on.”

Anise returns her attention to the storeroom. Inan heads back downstairs, but she cannot return to her place beside Bull and goes outside instead.

“Boss!” he calls, chasing after her. “I’m sorry.”

She stops and lets him reach her.

“When Charter let me in on the arrangement, I didn’t like lying to you. But it seemed the best option to protect you.”

“It would just be _nice_ ,” she tells him. “If people were who they said they were.” Tears are burning her eyes, and she hates them.

“I know,” he says.

She wipes at her eyes. “I’m not mad at you. I’m not.”

She feels hurt and betrayed, but not angry. She understands the situation, even if she hates it.

He steps forward, possibly to comfort her, but she turns away.

She’s surprised and outraged when a large hand pulls her back. She finds herself crushed against Bull’s chest, and she struggles against him.

“You need to act like you know nothing,” he says in her ear, his strong arms keeping her from escaping. “If there are spies remaining in the Inquisition and they notice you treating her differently–”

“Bull,” she says, hoping her voice sounds threatening instead of watery. “You let me go right now, or I swear I will knee you where it hurts.”

He does not relent. “I need you to say you understand.”

“I understand!”

He lets go, and she pulls back to slam her fist against his chest, her tears spilling over.

He grabs her wrist before she can hit him again. “I’m sorry.”

“Fuck your sorrys!” She is _so_ tired of hearing that phrase.

She pulls free and flips him two fingers. Then she spins on her heels and runs for her quarters where she breaks down into sobs. Again.

 _I should be used to this by now,_ she thinks as she angrily wipes at her tears. When it seems of little use, she reaches for her pack and begins shoving things into it.

Thom was the first. And that hadn’t hurt as much as it probably should. She didn’t see it as betrayal, but a man trying to own up to past mistakes.

Then there was Solas. Even before she learned the truth, she’d spent the entire period of time after their breakup wondering if it had all been lies because she couldn’t understand why he had ended it.

Then there was The Iron Bull. He had stayed loyal to her, even now. But the day he was asked to choose between the Qunari and The Chargers, the day she made the decision because he couldn’t…

She knew how badly the label of Tal’Vashoth weighed on him; the spies that were sent to kill him, the fear he held of his own mind breaking. Part of her always wondered if he regretted letting her decide.

And as they traveled the eluvians, and the Viddasala asked him to take up arms against the Inquisition…

 _This is it,_ she thought. _This is the moment._

But he didn’t turn against her. And standing in the aftermath, in the blood of the Qunari he had cut down alongside her, she couldn’t quite believe it.

She doesn’t question his loyalty now, but part of her had speculated for a very long time.

Then it was Solas tearing her world apart all over again. And now Anise, which she still can’t believe. And Bull who had hidden it from her.

She misses the days with her clan when the only people she had to be on her guard around were the humans she encountered.

With a bitter laugh, she supposes she’s the traitor now. The First of her clan who raised an army for the Shemlen religion and fell in love with Fen’Harel.

_Yes, you should be used to this._

But she’s not, and it seems the future only holds more secrets for her. Her relationship with Solas might be stable for now, but she knows there are things he won’t tell her, cards he holds and will keep close to his chest.

More secrets. And she has her own now that she keeps.

She feels like the day she arrived at the Conclave, she started down a long tunnel. And every time she thinks she’s finally reached the end, it just keeps going.

When will it ever stop being an uphill battle? When will she find a sense of normalcy that won’t be ripped up from under her? When can she rest and love and live in the way that she chooses?

It won’t be coming any time soon. And bemoaning her lot in life isn’t going to help.

She wipes away the last of her tears, and focuses on her bag. She needs clothes, soap, her knife, herbs from the garden for cooking and healing. She takes the whittling board Thom made for her for those moments of frustration when she won’t be able to sneak off for solitude.

Only having one arm doesn’t give her too much trouble – it’s awkward as it always is – until it comes to rolling up her bedroll. After wrestling with it for a bit, she ends up sitting on it with her knees to roll and tighten it, and that seems to work fine.

Then she throws her pack over her shoulders and stands to face her door. She takes a breath and steps outside to face whatever the day deigns to throw at her, just as she’s done everyday for the past three years.

 

* * *

 

She’s curious how long Anise plans to keep up the servant routine. And sure enough as they group up to leave, Anise offers to carry her pack. Cassandra shoots her down immediately, insisting that everyone carry their own gear so no one is overburdened and slows down the group.

There is little chit chat as they leave Skyhold. Anise takes up the rear of the party, as Inan assumes a servant should. Only when the group breaks off into the wilderness to pee does Inan find herself staring into the brush and wondering if Anise has found some way to spy on her here too.

When they make camp for the night, Anise offers to gather fire wood. Cassandra goes with her, insisting it will go faster with two. Inan and Bull set about making the area suitable for a fire, creating the pit and gathering twigs and leaves for kindling.

When Cassandra and Anise return, Anise offers to make the fire and cook diner. She’s allowed these, as they are mostly singular tasks. But Bull assists her as Cassandra takes Inan aside.

“This cannot continue,” Cassandra tells her. “She is not a servant for the three of us, and that must be understood. You need to speak with her.”

Inan opens her mouth to protest but closes it again. She has no idea how many people know Anise is not who she seems to be. Could it really be just her, Charter, and Bull? She realizes how unkind her inaction must seem.

She nods.

She and Cassandra return to the fire, but once diner is ready, Anise refuses to eat with them and no amount of coaxing convinces her. She leaves them to set up her tent, and after a look from Cassandra, Inan abandons her bowl of stew to assist Anise.

Anise protests profusely.

“You’re part of a team now,” Inan tells her. “We help each other. No one is lesser than anyone else, not out here.”

“My Lady,” she says. “You cannot–”

“I can,” Inan says. “And I will. And if you don’t like it, you can pack up and return to Skyhold. Now.”

That shuts Anise up, and she allows Inan to help her with her tent.

Inan marvels at the complexity of the lie she’s found herself in. With Thom and Solas, the exposure of the truth meant a renewal. Things were forever different afterward. With Anise, she must act as though nothing at all has changed. And Anise is so convincing, she finds herself wondering if the truth is even real. It’s disorienting.

She thinks of Bull, and Thom, and Solas. And she wonders if they were ever so caught up in a lie that it seemed far more real and far more preferable than the rest. And she thinks at some point it might have been true for all of them.

Has it been so for Anise?

Iron Bull and Cassandra have finished their meals by the time Anise and Inan have set up both of their tents. Inan retrieves her bowl from the fireside. Anise holds out her bowl with shaking hands as she accepts Inan pouring the stew for her.

Part of her wants to blurt out to Anise that she knows the truth, just to see what she would do, the different person she might become. But she doesn’t for Cassandra and Iron Bull, for all of her friends who are only trying to look out for her.

She and Anise eat their meal in silence. Anise sits a far from her as possible on the other end of the fire. Remembering servants aren’t supposed to eat with the people they serve only peaks Inan’s irritation, and her resolve not to say anything cracks.

“Are you high ranking among Briala’s people?”

Anise blinks. “My Lady?”

“Surely she wouldn’t send just any servant to attend the Inquisitor.”

She watches Anise carefully for any signs, but the woman appears merely thoughtful.

“I suppose I am mid ranking.”

“Mid ranking?”

Anise nods. “The Marquise needs her most important servants with her. I am of sufficient skill to serve you but not important enough to be needed personally.”

She has no idea if that’s the truth or if Anise is purposefully underplaying herself. “Does she train all her people to fight?”

“Of course.”

“Is it very rigorous?”

“It can be.”

Silence stretches with only the fire crackling.

Inan wonders if her conversations with Anise always end up so short because the woman wants to avoid talking about herself.

She tries a different approach. “Do you have any family?”

Anise shakes her head.

“No parents or siblings?”

“Once.”

She doesn’t elaborate.

“What happened?”

Anise gazes into her bowl and twists her foot against the dirt. “They aren’t with us anymore.”

Inan worries she struck a cord, and then she’s annoyed with herself because she has no idea if Anise is playing her.

“I’m sorry,” she says in sincerity, partly for any family members Anise may have actually lost and partly for her inane questioning that got her nowhere.

Anise says nothing. She continues to stare into her bowl, seemingly lost in her thoughts, no longer interested in the stew.

Inan sighs, excuses herself, and retires to her tent in irritation.

At least Bull can be satisfied she’s playing her part convincingly.

 

* * *

 

 “You like the secrets and scheming, don’t you?” she asks Solas when she dreams of him.

They sit together by the stream, his arms around her, and she sits in his lap.

“I’m sorry?” he says.

“You said you missed court intrigue.”

It takes him a minute to remember. “Ah, yes. I suppose I miss the mystery and the thrill. It is a game, like chess. And I find the strategy stimulating.”

“I’m rubbish at chess,” she tells him.

He chuckles and pulls her closer. “Yet you played your hand quite deftly at the Orleans court.”

She scoffs. “Only because I had other people to help set that hand up.”

He shakes his head. “Give yourself credit where it is due, vhenan.”

His breath is warm on her neck, and it tickles. She reaches behind her to lay her hand along the back of his head. He dips lower and presses a kiss into her skin.

“I didn’t enjoy it,” she tells him.

“I know.”

She sighs, not wanting to break the moment. But she pulls away to look at him. “Don’t you tire of it? Don’t you wish you could just… rest? That you didn’t have to fight anymore?”

He considers, then nods slowly, “Sometimes, yes.”

“Sometimes I wish…” She trails off as he stares over her shoulder.

She turns around to find the scene in her head spread out before them. On the other side of the stream sits a makeshift cottage, smoke from an inside fireplace coming out the top. And outside sits drying furs.

Solas reaches for her, and she allows him to pull her into his arms again. “Is that what you want, vhenan?”

She shakes her head. “No, not really. Only when I’m very tired.”

She wraps her arms over his. “You wouldn’t like it either. You’re a wanderer.”

The scene changes, and there is no cottage or furs, only her and Solas with packs on their backs, using their staves as walking sticks.

“We could travel,” she tells him. “We’d see the world and dream in ancient places. We’d raise a family on the road.”

Her other self turns toward them. There is an infant in her arms.

She feels Solas’ intake of breath along with hers. The scene bursts, and the other side of the stream is nothing more than trees once again.

Solas shakes against her. He pulls his arms from around her and turns her to face him. There are tears in his eyes as he reaches to cup her face.

“It is a beautiful dream, vhenan.”

She kisses him. Like it’s simple. Like she never stopped.

Solas pulls her closer.

She ignores the salt that falls between their lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been describing Anise as “young,” and I realized that may be a bit misleading. She’s near Inan’s age, which is 30.


End file.
